


RAINBOW CHASERS

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: AU, M/M, case files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:24:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 134,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Doyle worked the streets as a teenage runaway, Bodie worked for a gun-runner before ending up in CI5 and Cowley has high hopes of recruiting Ray Doyle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note there are references to rape, violence, baby farming, child abuse - physical and sexual. There is also a scene bordering non-con which may be triggery for some.
> 
> The story ignores all sexually transmitted diseases.
> 
> The story wasn't intended to be chaptered, so the sectioning off is fairly arbitrary.

RAINBOW CHASERS

HG

Inspired by a request from Rob

 

PART ONE  
MAY l974 - DECEMBER 1981

 

From an unpromising beginning in the gold-paved capital, offering unskilled hand jobs in doorways at ten pounds a time, Ray Doyle made good, unlike the majority of teenage runaways who came to London. While inevitably he made a number of mistakes, he avoided the common traps of drugs, pimps or arrest, even if the latter escape owed more to luck than judgement.

Within two months of arriving in London he could afford an over-priced but central bedsit above a sex-shop in Soho, gaining valuable advice in the law of the streets from the whores who worked the pavements beneath his window. Mutual understanding achieved, the ladies even referred business his way. For all his inexperience Doyle was never stupid enough to work his home ground, let alone bring a trick into his home. While the small bedsit wasn’t much, it was his; private and inviolate, it was a place of sanctuary and never for sharing with customers.

With a successful summer and autumn behind him Doyle discovered how difficult it was to ply his trade on the streets when the temperatures were close to freezing. Two weeks behind with his rent and possessing only seventy five pence to his name, he was hungry enough to break his cardinal rule and get into a trick's car, lured by the heady promise of fifty pounds. After thirteen hours of hell he recovered consciousness in hospital, gang-banged and beaten. On being discharged he had no choice but to return to the streets, his room having been re-let, his few possessions sold by an irate landlord. Young and tough he recovered quickly but the episode left more than physical scarring. Sometimes, when it was cold, the plastic insert in his smashed cheekbone would ache and the old fierce anger would return.

His sixteenth birthday fast approaching, and less than appealing with the raw marks of his injuries stark on his gaunt face and frame, he discovered his trade was one successfully plied only by the young and attractive. While he had never been the latter in the conventional sense of the word he had always found clients in plenty - until now. He survived by sleeping rough and on money borrowed from the free-lance prostitute who had initiated him into the delights of heterosexual sex only a few weeks before; it was with some reluctance that he found a legitimate job. Lying fluently about his age and work experience, he was taken on by an exclusive male-only sports club.

Because he possessed ambitions above those of messenger boy and general dog's-body he learnt to make himself indispensable. Resourceful and quick-witted, within six weeks he was helping out in the gym and locker room, trying to remain inconspicuous until he made a niche for himself. The club catered for the wealthy and powerful; there was no need for anyone to lecture him about the need for discretion regarding any overheard conversations between members. The club's fees were pitched at a level that only the very rich could sustain; it took him only a short while to realise that the most influential, those who wielded the real power in the world, tended to be those whose faces never appeared in the media: those accustomed to power felt no need to advertise the fact.

Increasingly intrigued by his new world Doyle listened to locker room conversations about bulls, bears and cocoa, determined to make sense of them. He began to understand that money could be used to make more money and set about learning everything he could: he had no prejudice about getting rich.

Between his fascination with the mysterious world of high finance and learning how to use and instruct others in the use of the apparatus offered by the club, it was some time before he recognised the subtle lures being cast his way by a few of the club regulars; the majority of clients haunting the streets around Piccadilly and Leicester Square weren't known for their finesse. He concealed his elated astonishment at being offered seventy five to one hundred pounds for just a blow job and watched his career blossom. With a directness that held its own kind of charm he made it clear that his activities did not extend to anal intercourse, found an impersonal, if shabby, hotel that catered for the hourly requirements of its clientele, and visited it at least three times a week.

His injuries fully healed by now, his broken cheekbone adding to rather than detracting from his looks, and fitter than he had ever been thanks to his work at the club, Doyle prospered. Adept, discreet, an excellent listener and with a black sense of humour rare in one of his age he soon a established a small, select list of regulars. It was from some of them that he learnt the most about the world of finance. One, amused by Doyle's enthusiasm and pungently expressed views, even encouraged him upon discovering he had an apt pupil. A believer in paying his debts, Doyle reduced the man's fees, thus increasing that gentleman's amusement, Sir Edward Walker being the third-highest-paid businessman in Britain.

By this time Doyle was earning enough to rent a comfortable one-bedroomed flat in Pimlico and to buy a secondhand Suzuki. Before long he reluctantly admitted that he was bored; the job at the sports club made too few demands of him. He said as much to one of the Instructors, a grizzled ex-paratrooper and so found himself working harder than he had ever worked in his life in what had been his free time. Relishing the challenge, Doyle set about mastering the rudiments of unarmed combat - judo, kendo and savate - feeling the need for a discipline hitherto missing from his life. Quite apart from the fact he enjoyed testing himself to the limit, the exertion offered a safe outlet for some of the pent-up anger in him, the anger he liked to believe he did not feel.

Shortly before his seventeenth birthday he added anal intercourse to his list of enjoyable activities, courtesy of Michael, a designer met by chance in Covent Garden. Apart from making Doyle aware of a source of great pleasure he had been missing out on, Michael also introduced him to Fellini's films, classical music, French cuisine and shooting (both target and clay pigeon). It it was with some regret that Doyle saw Michael leave to make his home in Paris, surprised to discover how much he missed him. It shouldn't have been so surprising; while Doyle had a number of clients, and acquaintances in plenty, he had no friends. Michael had been both friend and lover but even with him Doyle was honest enough to admit how little of himself he had given to the relationship: how little he had dared to give. He knew if he became emotionally involved he would be lost because eventually they would leave and he would have nothing. Having seen that happen to others he was determined to keep his emotional armour intact.

Bored and restless in the weeks after Michael's departure, despite the advent of Julie into his life, Doyle decided it was time to apply the knowledge he had been acquiring and find himself a stock-broker. In one phone call he made more money than he had earned in the previous two months. Flushed with success he proceeded to lose all that and more besides in the following month. While he learnt a lot from the experience Doyle remembered all too well the insecurity of being homeless and penniless; perhaps that was why he was so receptive when Tony Sullivan approached him with a job offer.

A regular at the sports club, Sullivan had been watching Doyle with increasing interest for months. Sullivan was the sole proprietor of an agency that offered a wide variety of services to those of London society who could afford them. Housecalls was discreet and selective; it could afford to be, catering for the varied needs of the affluent and powerful. The agency lived up to its name; whatever service might be required, be it plumber, carpenter, electrician or mechanic Housecalls was the place to call. While such services were responsible for about eighty-five per cent of turnover Housecalls also offered a service known only to only a select few - those with a high public profile who wished to enjoy the same sexual freedom as the public at large, without the event providing headlines for one of the tabloids. The agency's white vans with the distinctive emerald logo were a familiar sight around the more select areas of London. Whatever the age and physical attributes of the overalled figures entering the homes of the rich and influential their presence occasioned no comment. Half the government, all the leading merchant banks and two-thirds of London society had made use of Housecalls' services at one time or another. Only Tony Sullivan was in the position to know the services his staff had been called upon to perform and none of the legitimate craftsmen were aware of the other side of Housecalls' business. Discretion was guaranteed for all concerned.

In the four years since the agency had begun life there hadn't been a whiff of scandal. Sullivan selected his staff, whatever their chosen field of expertise, with inordinate care. While always on the lookout for additions to his team of specialists, his stringent requirements meant that many a promising newcomer had to be passed by; Housecalls' reputation and guarantee of anonymity for each client was one he took care to protect.

Doyle showed promise. Despite his lamentable speech and forthright views, which he did not hesitate to share if asked, he was popular with the club members. Quick to pick up on Doyle's sideline (something the club management had signally failed to do) Sullivan watched and waited. When it became obvious that Doyle could keep his regulars and that none of them betrayed any hint of tension or anxiety, Sullivan realised Doyle could be a real find. He worked hard, did not impose his personal problems on members and had the knack of treating everyone from the doorman to the Duke of Westminster exactly the same. While he would never be called conventionally good-looking he had sex-appeal in plenty and that wiry body would wear well. Sullivan's clients were sophisticated enough to want personality plus the more usual attributes. Doyle seemed to offer both.

Leaning over the rail of the viewing gallery while waiting for his partner to change, Sullivan watched Doyle trounce the scion of a noble house at squash. As he noted the ease between the two very different men he decided to offer Doyle a job. The boy had potential; now it was time to discover if he could fulfil it.

 

"Let me see if I've got this straight," said Doyle. "You 'andle all the negotiations and take 'alf of every fee. Bit steep seein' as 'ow I'm the one doin' all the work." 

"Not when you take account of the security factor. It isn't only the clients Housecalls protects. You won't find yourself having any unhappy surprises with clients from this agency."

"And if I do?" said Doyle, his scepticism plain. "You can 'ardly go bleatin' to the coppers."

"The client will pay, in whatever coin will cost them the most."

Doyle eyed him shrewdly. "'ow often 'as that 'appened?"

"Once in two and a half years," replied Sullivan flatly. Taken by the majority of his acquaintances to be an easy-going man he was capable of an efficient ruthlessness when he deemed the situation to demand it.

To his inner surprise Doyle found himself believing Sullivan. "Not bad odds, I suppose."

"I'm glad you approve. The portfolio that is available to clients clearly sets out what specialities my staff offer. Anyone with more unconventional tastes - "

" - perverts," interrupted Doyle.

Sullivan gave him a look of reproof. "Unorthodox tastes."

"Depends on your definition of orthodox."

"Agreed. How would you define perversion?"

Doyle did not have to think about it. "In my line of work - gang-bangs, fucking kids and getting your jollies with pain - mine or theirs. I don't do water sports or scat either."

"As I have been at some pains to explain, those tastes are catered for elsewhere."

"Within Housecalls?"

"No."

The unequivocal reply satisfied Doyle for the moment. "I've never used a pimp before. And I already 'ave some regulars. What if I want to do freelance work?"

"If you are already attracting the level of remuneration Housecalls can offer why are you still working at the gym?"

"You could 'ave a point there," conceded Doyle, although his tone was grudging. "You obviously think a lot of the agency's reputation."

"I have to. Irrespective of the service required clients don't want to find themselves in the gossip columns the next day. I don't approach anyone until I am satisfied they'll be an asset to the agency."

"Should I be flattered?"

"Yes, if you take any pride in your life. If you decide to join Housecalls you'll be on six months' probation. You already know the terms and conditions regarding leave, sick pay and terminating your employment."

"True," said Doyle, determinedly unimpressed. Sullivan had an authoritative manner and he did not care for it at all.

"As I have already mentioned you'll be required to offer some other recognised skill - to a high degree of competence, if not a professional qualification."

Swallowing his derisive comment Doyle said only, "What kind of skill?"

"The list is extensive: carpenter, caterer, chauffeur, cook, decorator, electrician, gardener, hairdresser, masseur, plumber - I'm afraid you don't meet the minimum height requirement for one of our security teams. You don't, I suppose, happen to be proficient on a musical instrument?" Sullivan added, not without hope.

"Only comb and toilet paper."

Unamused, Sullivan studied him. "If that's indicative of your interest in my proposal we are both wasting our time."

Doyle hitched himself up a little on the chair, abruptly conscious of the tear in the knee of his jeans and the oil stain he had been unable to remove from his thumb nail. "You want me to choose something now?"

"An indication of your preference would be helpful. I'll organise the necessary training. You might find it hard going at first but you'll end up with a more durable marketable skill than you possess at the moment."

Sullivan's cool, assessing stare seemed to see everything and approve of nothing. That the last straw, Doyle shot to his feet.

"Did someone stick a poker up your arse? You toffee-nosed git! Listen, mate, if we're goin' to be workin' together one of us is goin' to 'ave to change. I don't take that kind of superior crap from anyone."

"I should never have guessed," remarked Sullivan, his manner unruffled, his voice mild. "Has it ever occurred to you there may be room for improvement?"

Despite the mockery Doyle was aware of the friendly undertones and the hint of humour lurking around the older man's mouth and eyes. Uncertain what to make of Tony Sullivan he scowled and sat down again. "I don't think we can work together," he said sullenly.

"Are you afraid to try?"

His eyes narrowing for a moment, Doyle relaxed. "You're a tricky bastard, aren't you. Is that supposed to be my cue to deny it and join up?"

Genuinely amused Sullivan smiled, his teeth looking very white against his swarthy skin. "It was. I can see I shall have to make some changes myself. It's a technique that has proved effective in the past."

"I bet it 'as. I wouldn't mind workin' in a garage," Doyle capitulated. "I know a fair bit about bikes already. I've got a Suzuki 1100 I keep on the road and I'm rebuilding an old Norton."

"Are you?" said Sullivan with an interest that was wholly feigned. It was enough.

After ten minutes both men had proved to their own satisfaction that Doyle knew a little about bikes.

"Housecalls has a full-time mechanic on the staff. Apart from emergency calls Terry looks after our vans and the hire cars. He'll be able to extend your expertise. He can certainly use some help in the evenings, he's working fourteen hours at a stretch at the moment."

"Evenings?" echoed Doyle, betrayed into surprise.

"Contrary to popular belief you'll discover most of your evenings will be free. Afternoons are our busiest time, whatever the booking."

"'Ow come?"

"Think about it. The majority of our clients lead exceedingly busy lives, often in the public eye. If their evenings aren't taken up with 'business' or on public engagements they're spent with their families outside London. All of our clients own at least a pied à terre in town, whatever other property might be theirs, hence the varied demands for Housecalls' services."

"So most weekends will be free too."

"For the most part," agreed Sullivan, appreciating Doyle's quick-wittedness.

"And I only 'ave to work when I want to?"

"You'll work for Terry whenever he wants you to. Otherwise, yes. The nature of the services you offer is up to you. Obviously you'll need a certain amount of grooming before your portfolio goes on file. Training will be given if necessary."

His mask of indifference forgotten Doyle looked surprised.

"I need to know a great deal more about you. How good you are, how adaptable - not everyone cares for street urchin audacity - your sexual preferences and prejudices. Do you have any other languages?"

"I can understand 'how much' in quite a few," said Doyle, beginning to wonder what he had let himself in for. But Sullivan's proposal was too sweet to walk away from it. Doyle had always enjoyed seeing anything well done and Sullivan was obviously every inch the professional. "As for the rest of it, what sort of things d'you 'ave in mind?"

"A medical is the first obvious step."

While Doyle scowled he made no protest, accepting the necessity.

"Then it will be necessary to test your aptitude in a number of scenarios. Not all of Housecalls' clients are young."

"What's new," sighed Doyle, before he sat up, suspicion writ large on his face. "What kind of scenarios?"

Lighting a cigar, Sullivan sat back in his chair. "Our clients expect a professional and articulate service. They have the right to receive both in view of the level of fee they pay. An unhappy customer doesn't return. Housecalls relies on regular business and word-of-mouth recommendation. Both cut down the amount of screening the agency has to undertake and that helps to keep down costs."

"You're goin' to test me?" Doyle's outrage was obvious. 

"Not personally. That will be handled by various members of my staff. Will that be a problem?"

"Probably. I'm choosy about who gets to fuck me, irrespective of whether they pay or not."

Relieved, Sullivan gave a faint smile. "Is that all? That won't be a problem."

Doyle gawped at him. "You mean I won't 'ave to?"

"You will be tested only in the sexual variations you intend to offer clients. What you offer is up to you. Obviously your level of remuneration depends upon what you offer."

Doyle gave a grudging nod of acceptance. "It's like no agency I've 'eard of," he said frankly, not certain if he believed it. Yet Housecalls was a familiar name around the sports club, often referred to and always without innuendo or a hint of scandal; usually bitter complaints about the level of fees combined with a recommendation now he thought about it. Presumably the unofficial services received the same comments, if not in public.

"That's why we prosper. The needs of clients are various and complex, you must have learnt that for yourself already."

"What exactly do you want from me?"

"Your confirmation you have no objection and some ability when it comes to starring in a few harmless fantasies - the innocent, the stud, the seducer. That kind of thing," finished Sullivan with a vagueness that made Doyle wonder if the older man had any idea what the real world was like.

"'Ow d'you suppose I've been makin' a living?" he returned dryly. "That's no problem. And I'm good." It was offered as a statement of fact rather than a boy's boast of prowess.

Nodding, Sullivan went on, "Most of our female customers are of mature years. That said, both Marie and Anna will evaluate your skills, Marie because she is the closest in chronological age to the average client and Anna because we do have a few younger ladies on our books. Keith will supervise the rest."

"Women?"

"Not if the idea appals you."

"You 'ave paying clients who are women?" pursued Doyle with what Sullivan was coming to realise was a typical single-mindedness.

"Of course. You may restrict your activities to male clients if you prefer."

"Not likely," said Doyle with alacrity. "I've always preferred a bit of variety. It's just that women aren't very good at payin' for it as a rule. You'd think with the sexual revolution and all they'd've got the 'ang of it by now, wouldn't you," he added sadly.

"You can leave me to worry about collecting the fees," said Sullivan, experienced enough to hide his amusement at Doyle's worldly air.

"I reckon I can at that," Doyle conceded. "How d'you know I won't leave 'ere and flog the story of the agency to Fleet Street?"

"For a paltry few hundred pounds? I credit you with more intelligence. Besides, I've been watching you for some time. You have a number of satisfied customers from the club, at least three of whom are eminently blackmailable given their high public profile. Shall I name them?"

"You don't miss much," Doyle remarked.

"I can't afford to. Can we do business?"

"I don't see why not. While you live up to your end of the deal."

Studying the young face with its sensual mouth and curiously old eyes, aware of the mixture of streetwise adolescent and untapped potential in the attractive male animal opposite him, Sullivan began to think Ray Doyle was more correct than he supposed. The boy was going to be quite a draw; he made a mental note to remember not to smooth away too many of Doyle's rough edges.

 

After passing his medical and other less orthodox examinations with flying colours, Doyle's boredom was a thing of the past. He had never been required to think so much or work so hard and he found he enjoyed doing both. While opposed to losing his uniform of jeans and tee shirts, his style of dress improved when the occasion demanded it; he absorbed information like a sponge, from how to strip down the engine of a BMW to the correct mode of address for an Ambassador. He proved to be an able pupil and a competent mimic. While his speech rapidly smoothed out, from personal preference he retained his own speech patterns when not working, as if to accentuate the demarcation between his working and personal life.

Quietly satisfied with his most recent recruit Sullivan's interest became both genuine and more personal when Doyle had been with the agency for about seven months. Their dealings until then had been amicable, if enlivened by the occasional heated argument with Doyle, who seemed to feel the need to assert his independence at regular intervals.

As Sullivan had predicted Doyle proved popular with clients of both sexes, quickly establishing a prestigious list of regulars; as was often the case not all booked Doyle for his more obvious attributes, Sullivan suspecting that one client, a widower of seventy-three, requested Doyle as much for lengthy consultations about the Nortons they both owned as for any of Doyle's more arcane skills. 

The first indication Sullivan had that anything was amiss was when Doyle failed to keep a regular booking one lunchtime. He gained no reply when he telephoned Doyle at home; learning that he had failed to return the van to the central garage Sullivan went round to Doyle's Pimlico flat, caught between anger and concern.

He rang the doorbell; getting no reply he was about to leave when he spotted a ricketty side-gate that led into what estate agents would undoubtedly dignify with the name garden. He stood in the shadows cast by a limp laburnum tree watching Doyle crouched above the separate parts of his cherished Norton, smears of oil adorning all visible portions of flesh. Angry and disappointed, Sullivan prepared to make his presence known when he stepped on a plastic beaker, the resulting crack causing Doyle to swing round. Only then did Sullivan realise that rather than oil stains Doyle had been beaten - from the raw marks at his wrists while he had been forcibly restrained.

"Get out!" said Doyle with venom. Rising with difficulty, his face was pinched with anger and a dirty grey where it wasn't bruised.

"I became concerned when you failed to keep your appointment with Mrs. Langton earlier today. You're hurt." Sullivan's tone was formal, giving no indication of his inner rage as he mentally reviewed the list of Doyle's most recent bookings, determined to learn who had been responsible for this.

"Get out! You weren't invited."

"You also failed to return the van," continued Sullivan as if there had been no interruption.

"So sue me." Glassy-eyed and sweating Doyle's glare lacked conviction. "I'll get you the keys." Turning too quickly he clutched the wall for support; Sullivan was at his side a moment later.

"I'm all right," snarled Doyle, shrugging off Sullivan's helping hand.

"The first thing you need is a doctor. Will the bike be safe out here?"

"I keep it in the cellar," said Doyle, one arm around his middle, his eyes closing.

Sullivan efficiently took charge. He put away the bike, secured Doyle's flat and took him home with him before calling his own doctor.

Roger Ferris proved to be a gruff unflappable man with none of the more irritating mannerisms of many of his profession. He made no comment as he cleaned Doyle's various cuts and contusions before taping his ribs and supplying medication. Leaving instructions with Sullivan he left as undramatically as he had arrived.

Finding himself bathed and fed and wearing a bathrobe of Sullivan's that swamped him, given the disparity in their height and girth, Doyle glared around Sullivan's untidy but comfortable sitting room. Numerous photographs of two young boys in various stages of undress caught his attention and his expression soured; Doyle had decided opinions about paedophiles.

"My sons Gareth and Matthew," said his host as he re-entered the room, making Doyle jump. "The house will be invaded this Thursday when the summer holidays begin. Is that shot Ferris gave you taking effect yet?" He waited for Doyle's nod. "Good. You can sleep in one of the boy's rooms."

"I'm not tired," said Doyle ungraciously, feeling ill-at-ease on Sullivan's home ground.

"Then you can tell me who was responsible for this. I thought your last booking was with Allander - two hours for a chat and blow job."

"So did I. Seems we were both wrong." While he spoke without emphasis, anger crackled around Doyle. Despite, or perhaps because of his relative youth, Sullivan was aware of his potential for danger.

"You'd be more comfortable lying down," he said prosaically.

"I'd be even more comfortable at home," snapped Doyle but he stayed put, his sore back well away from the leather upholstery of the sofa.

Guiltily aware that Doyle was still in some discomfort and taking responsibility for the fact, Sullivan glared at him. "For once in your miserable life stop arguing and do as you're told!"

"You've got a wonderful bedside manner. Don't worry, I'm not goin' to faint on you."

Sullivan stared at the pinched, bruised face, unable to forget the marks he had glimpsed on the thin body when Ferris had tended to them. "You look terrible," he said frankly, his expression apologetic. "And not much older than Matthew there."

"Thanks a bundle," said Doyle dryly.

"What happened, Ray?"

To his surprise Doyle found himself telling him. The bald recital did not take long. "Eventually they'd 'ad enough and left," he finished.

"Why didn't you leave at that point?" asked Sullivan with a brisk matter of factness, aware sympathy was the last emotion Doyle needed to hear.

"Because at that point I was still tied to the fuckin' bed. They'd put a dog collar on me and - " Abruptly Doyle stopped, his expression smoothing out. "After about an hour Allander came back. 'E looked a bit rumpled 'imself. Tried to give me five hundred quid to forget about it."

"Can you?"

"I'm goin' to find the bastards who did it and I'm going to kill them," said Doyle without emphasis.

Having been watching him all afternoon Sullivan knew it was not simply angry rhetoric talking; he had seen that look on men's faces before.

"I can understand your anger and sense of outrage," he began, choosing his words with care.

"Can you? How? You ever had anyone play humiliation games on you? One of them - " Again Doyle stopped on a shuddering breath, his eyes blank. A short while later he looked up. "I'm sorry. Dunno why I'm taking it out on you. You're right of course, I'm over-reactin'. Occupational hazard. It isn't the first time a job's turned sour on me. But this," he gestured to his face, "is why I skipped my appointment with Mrs Langton. Sorry, I should 'ave rung in sick. Can't imagine many clients will want a multi-coloured fuck. Soon as it fades I'll be back. Thanks for your 'elp. I'll be in touch." Getting slowly to his feet Doyle tugged at the robe. "My clothes?"

"Are in the tumble dryer. Your shirt will never be the same though. So you're going to put this behind you, are you? Chalk it up to experience?"

Lulled by the other man's quiet voice, Doyle nodded. "That's right." 

"You're a bloody liar." 

"The 'ell you say!"

"And don't start shouting the odds at me, boyo. You try spouting that kind of crap at me again and you'll likely find yourself with a fat lip!"

Doyle slumped back onto the sofa, astonishment overtaking his outrage. "You're Welsh," he said blankly.

"What of it? Here, drink this. One brandy won't hurt you. I've still got to find an explanation for your injuries that I can give to Roger. I don't want to inflict any more myself," added Sullivan irritably, regretting the impulse that had led him to bring a member of staff into his home, something that had never happened in the years Housecalls had been in business. 

"Sullivan isn't a Welsh name," said Doyle, disposing of the brandy with an alacrity it did not deserve. 

"If it's any of your business I was adopted by a Welsh family when I was three. What did you expect, a quick burst of 'There'll be a welcome in the valleys' while I wave a leek around?"

"There's no need to be so touchy," said Doyle, his swollen mouth twitching before he gave a lop-sided grin. 

"What's so funny?" asked Sullivan with resignation, taking a much-needed drink himself. 

"Just remembering all those soddin' lectures you've been givin' me, you bastard, and here you are... Now I look at you you're built like a bloody full-back."

"Lot you'd know about it," snorted Sullivan. "You know your trouble, you think in clichés."

"What - no Max Boyce tapes and trips to Cardiff Arms Park?" said Doyle irrepressibly. "Why the act?"

"It isn't an act. My accent only shows when I'm angry or drunk. I don't make a habit of being either. I can't hear it myself. Perhaps it's no more than the fact that when I'm at home I like to relax. This is my home. You aren't the only one who likes to keep a clear demarcation between his business and private life. Now where are you going?" Sullivan added in exasperation. 

"Back to my side of the line." A pugnacious tilt to his chin Doyle looked prickly as a hedgehog, all traces of humour banished by the unmistakable snub.

His eyes rolling heavenwards Sullivan muttered something to himself. 

"I don't speak Welsh." 

"Nor do I," Sullivan snapped. "That was a prayer for patience. Look you, sit yourself down and keep quiet until I tell you to speak. We've things to discuss if we're going to find those fine friends of Allander's." 

" _We_? Why should you care?"

His temper his own once more, there was a grim set to Sullivan's mouth. "When you joined Housecalls I promised you certain things, safety for one. I don't like been proved a liar." 

Concentrating on Sullivan because it was preferable to reliving recent events, it was brought home to Doyle how incompletely he knew the other man. He. didn't like mysteries and he wasn't used to having people worrying over him.

"While Allander claimed they were friends of 'is, he was terrified. He wasn't the only one," Doyle added colourlessly. 

"They were waiting for you?"

"Seems like it. They 'ad a video camera with them. Can't be sure they got my best side of course." Aware of the infuriating catch in his voice and the fact his hands were shaking Doyle studied his lap until he should have regained control. 

"So Allander set you up?"

Doyle thought about it, then slowly shook his head. "I don't think so. What 'appened wasn't his fault. 'E wasn't even there most of the time." 

"It's very fair-minded of you to have noticed considering how worried you must have been." 

"I'm a fair-minded bloke," said Doyle, his voice drier than last autumn's leaves. 

"Clear-headed enough to observe so many details in difficult circumstances," Sullivan pointed out. 

" _Worried? Difficult_? Cut the crap, Sullivan. I was fuckin' terrified and everyone in the room knew it." 

"Not so scared you couldn't give detailed descriptions of each man down to their shoe sizes." 

"I'm observant. Big deal. It doesn't change what happened. What I let 'appen." 

"You have nothing to feel guilty about." 

"Who said I felt guilty!" snapped Doyle, his hands unconsciously clasping his forearms to still their shaking, his skin crawling. 

"It's a common reaction amongst those who have been tortured." 

"I wasn't - "

"And it can be helped. There's a doctor I know, Naomi Rosenfeld. I think you should have a chat with her. I know she can help." 

"How?" asked Doyle, his bitterness obvious. 

Sullivan chose to misunderstand the question. "Because I needed help myself about fifteen years ago. Not in the same situation," he added, forestalling Doyle's next question, "but close enough. She's helped a lot of people through some difficult times." Seeing that Doyle was stubbornly unconvinced, he added, "You might not think so now but you were lucky. The worst that happened to you is the dent to your pride. If you waste your time dreaming of revenge or moping they will have won because they'll have broken you. Is that what you want?"

"I see the tea and sympathy didn't last long."

"You've been feeling sorry enough for both of us."

"Stuff you and your bloody platitudes. I'm goin' 'ome."

Pushed back onto the sofa before he had risen to his feet, the jarring thump drawing a grunt of mingled surprise and pain from Doyle.

"I haven't even started yet, boyo. You have a temper, I already know that. It's about time you learnt how to channel it, how to make it work for you."

"I suppose you can teach me?" sneered Doyle, estimating his chances of flattening Sullivan. 

"Don't even think it," warned Sullivan. "I'm four stone heavier and six inches taller. Your fancy tricks aren't much good against someone who knows them better than you and who has that kind of advantage in height and weight." 

"I can give you twenty years!"

"Not enough advantage at the moment. In another five years you might have a chance, now you'd have none." 

"Let's find out." 

"Not in my sitting room we won't. Christ, I'm as bad as you," Sullivan added in disgust, taking a calming breath and brushing back his unruly dark hair. "Still, you look better for that little burst of temper." 

Taken aback, Doyle stared at him. "You mean you got me goin' on purpose - ?"

Sullivan gave a grin that knocked fifteen years from his age. "It's tempting to say yes, unfortunately it wouldn't be true. You can be an aggravating little bugger. But I didn't intend to start throwing my weight around. Is your back okay?"

"I'll live. And you're right, I do feel better," admitted Doyle, aware that his sense of outrage at his impotence to save himself was less acute, diminished by Sullivan's astringent manner that took it for granted that he wouldn't fall apart while conceding he had the right. 

"Thank god for that," said Sullivan frankly. "I don't know about you but I'm hungry again. Scrambled eggs and bacon do you? Say yes, I can't cook much else." 

"Yes," said Doyle weakly. 

"Good. You can come and help." 

Doyle took some of his aggression out on the hapless eggs, whisking them until his arm ached. "What do you suggest we do?"

"You can make some toast if you like." 

"I didn't mean about the meal." 

"I know but you can still make some toast while we talk. Why would Allander invite those men to his home and if he didn't invite them what were they doing there?"

"He didn't invite them," said Doyle with certainty. "They looked like heavies. Enforcers, you know?"

"Ive heard rumours that Allander had over-extended himself on a couple of business deals. I hadn't realised he was involved with the heavy mob." 

"That's what 'appens when you do drugs," shrugged Doyle. 

"Allander?"

"He's been mainlining for months. Reckon 'e supplies a few friends too." 

"Does he indeed. We'll not have much trouble with Mr Allander then," said Sullivan with satisfaction. "Those men were probably from his supplier." 

"'Ow does that help?"

"Makes it easier to get something on them that will put them away for a while. Nice long stretch inside would do them the world of good. Butter's in the fridge. You should find some beer in there too." 

"Are you suggesting I go to the police?" demanded Doyle, finding a plate for the pile of toast he had made.

"Don't get mad, get even. But eat these eggs first. I hope you like your bacon well done," Sullivan added pensively. "It's the only way I can cook it." 

Momentarily side-tracked Doyle stared at the charred cinders Sullivan deposited on his plate. "I hope your wife's a better cook than you are. Bloody hell. Got any more bacon? Good, then leave it to me. I'm not much good in a kitchen but compared to you..." 

"My wife's dead," said Sullivan briskly, his manner not encouraging comment on the fact. "Matthew isn't bad at cooking for his age - if he sticks to baked beans on toast. I haven't found the knack of getting anything between raw and burnt. Anyway, I like my bacon crisp," he added defensively. 

"But not incinerated. How d'you manage for meals?"

"Mrs Hodges who does for us stocks up the freezer with home cooking. When that runs out I eat out or buy pre-prepared stuff. Stop changing the subject. I've made an appointment to see Allander tomorrow morning." 

"And you expect him to turn up?"

"He'll be there." 

Doyle began to eat his eggs while he guarded the bacon. "I want to be there," he mumbled, his mouth full. For the first time he saw Sullivan at a loss. 

"I have the right," he added, sliding four rashers of perfectly cooked bacon onto Sullivan's plate. 

"I'm more interested in ensuring you don't reduce Allander and my office to matchwood. There's a lot of aggression tucked away inside your skinny frame and I don't want to see any of it released until the time is right."

"A time to be decided by you, I suppose?"

"You're learning," said Sullivan with approval. "This bacon isn't bad." 

Doyle munched thoughtfully on his third slice of toast. "What the hell did you do before you started poncing for a livin'?"

Caught mid-gulp of beer Sullivan spluttered, choked and was puce before he was free to give a bellow of laughter. "That's for me to know."

"What 'ave I said that's so funny?" asked Doyle, very much on his dignity. 

"Because in my five and a bit years in the business you're the only hooker to call a spade a bloody shovel," said Sullivan frankly, paying Doyle the compliment of being honest. 

"I suppose it was a bit blunt," admitted Doyle sheepishly. 

"Just a little," Sullivan agreed, amusement in his eyes. "You have a rare honesty." 

Doyle loooked up and shook his head. "No. While I don't mind foolin' customers - it's what they're payin' for after all - I'm not fond of foolin' myself. And what's that look for?"

"You're a breath of fresh air - or a Force Ten gale. Don't you want that rasher of bacon?"

"Get your thievin' 'ands off." Doyle hurriedly returned to his meal. 

"We don't get many bright lads who make a career in this game. What are you wasting your time in it for?" asked Sullivan. He had the grace to look embarrassed when Doyle stared at him. "Okay, stupid question on my part," he conceded, "but you could do more with your life." 

"I know and when I work out what it is I want to do I'll get on with it. Till then... I'm doin' quite nicely, thank you. There are worse ways of earning a living," Doyle added with a grin that would have been beyond him a couple of hours before. 

"Until days like yesterday." 

Staring at the older man Doyle realised Sullivan had meant what he said about feeling responsible. "It wasn't your fault." 

"I vetted Allander, I got you the booking. That makes it my responsibility." 

"I want to be there when you see Allander." 

Looking up from his can of beer Sullivan came to a decision. "On one understanding." 

"That is?"

"We deal with him my way. He'll rue the day he involved one of _my_ staff even if we're the only people who will know that." 

While Sullivan's tone was conversational Doyle believed him. Worse than that, he trusted him. It was an odd experience after years of caution and he wasn't sure if he liked it. 

"Maybe," he said grudgingly before he got up to make some coffee.

"I want your word you'll do no more than listen in."

Doyle swung around. "Do you think it'll be worth anything?"

"If you give it, yes."

Disconcerted, Doyle busied himself finding cups and filter paper. "Okay," he said gruffly, "we'll do it your way. What happens tomorrow?"

"Not a lot. I take Allander for every penny I can get out of him for allowing you to be abused on his premises. Housecalls will accept no further bookings of any kind from him and he will be warned against considering any retaliatory action."

"You think I want money?"

"I think that by the time Allander has been charged with dealing he won't have any left. Besides, money matters to him even if it doesn't to you. That's why we'll take it. There's a firm of private detectives I've used in the past. I'll put them on to staking out Allander's homes. If things are going badly for him it's my guess those enforcers will be back. Then we'll have them as well. A little more surveillance on all parties and who knows what we might find. When we have enough we take the information to the police - or at least the detective agency will. There will be no connection with Housecalls."

"The police!" snorted Doyle.

"It's the best way, Ray. They can do a more permanent job on those bastards than we could hope to. But we'll have to give them probable cause before they can move in. What better than a big drugs bust? We might even get a lead on the man behind those enforcers."

Doyle's head rose. "Especially 'im," he agreed, his tone unforgiving.

"Why him in particular?"

"Because those blokes weren't filmin' the show for their own benefit."

"Did you hear a name?" asked Sullivan quickly.

"I've given you all I 'eard." Doyle fell silent, swilling the dregs of his coffee around his mug. "You really think you'll be able to stitch them up legally?"

Sullivan sat back in his chair. "Did any of those men, or Allander himself, strike you as being particularly bright?"

Doyle shook his head.

"Then give my way a try. I won't pretend you'll see results overnight. It could take two or three months. It could take longer. It could also produce a major drugs bust if we bide our time."

"Are you that anti-drugs?" asked Doyle in surprise, Sullivan's manner usually that that led one to suppose he felt deeply about very few things.

"Matthew's six, Gareth eighteen months younger. In a few years they could be buying. Yes, I'm anti-drugs."

"Can't say I'm keen myself," conceded Doyle. "Saw too much of it on the streets. Okay, we'll try your way first. It's probably for the best," he added philosophically, having given the matter a lot of thought. "Knowing my luck I'd be bound to get caught in the act and I don't fancy givin' it away for free in some high-security cell."

Sullivan began to laugh again, although this time he had the sense not to tell Doyle why.

oOo

His unsightly but minimal physical injuries healing quickly Doyle was working in the garage within two days. Neither he nor Sullivan suggested he extend his working activities and Sullivan quietly cancelled Doyle's bookings.

Aware that the private detectives Sullivan had hired had Allander's house under surveillance and that all Allander's former house guests had been identified and were also under surveillance Doyle took no further interest in the enquiry in the weeks that followed. He dared not, wanting the men behind bars and thus out of his reach, his own instinct still urging personal, violent revenge and his anger finding no outlet.

Doyle returned to the garage, having delivered an aged Bentley to its fond owner, to find found Sullivan drinking a mug of tea with Terry. From the latter's disgruntled expression it was obvious he had been impeding Terry's work for some time.

"At last!" exclaimed Sullivan, getting to his feet.

"Did you want me?"

"Startling as it may seem, yes. Terry tells me you've finished your stint for the day. Remember that workout we talked about having? What about today? I've been stuck behind a desk for over a week and I could use the exercise."

"If you like. Okay if I push off, Tel?"

"Aye, you've done your fair share. Get off with you," said the mechanic gruffly, his expression making it plain he wanted Sullivan out from under his feet.

"I'll pick up my gear and meet up with you. Your club, is it?" asked Doyle, wondering how some of the regulars would greet the sight of himself as a guest.

"I'll give you a lift back to your flat," said Sullivan.

 

In the deserted gymnasium Tony Sullivan systematically proceeded to demolish Doyle, finding the time and breath to spare to point out each flaw in the younger man's attack as he did so. Then he set about destroying Doyle's defence.

"And this," he said finally, a little breathless himself by this time, "is why it doesn't do to rely solely on the martial arts. Convinced?"

"I'm bloody near pulverized," wheezed Doyle. "Get off me, you great ox."

Released, he straightened with care and gave the colossus standing above him a wry shake of the head. "I'll never live this down," he mourned. "Beaten by an old man."

"Thanks," said Sullivan dryly, extending his hand to pull Doyle to his feet.

"You're fast," said Doyle, giving credit where it was due.

"I'm slowing down, Ray. There are plenty better than me." Turning, Sullivan headed for the showers. Doyle overtook him before he reached the door.

"Hang on a minute. I want to learn everything you know. Teach me?"

"Now?" demanded Sullivan, caught between amusement and exasperation as he stared into the eager young face.

"Tomorrow. I daren't leave it too long," explained Doyle, leaning back against the wall bars. Young and fit and full of boundless energy he made Sullivan feel every one of his thirty-six years.

"Why not?" he asked warily.

"Well you aren't getting any younger," Doyle pointed out cheerfully. "I don't want you popping your clogs mid-lesson."

"You cheeky young bastard! I'm not senile," Sullivan protested, stung.

"That's a matter of opinion. Come on, Tony. It'll be good exercise for you, too."

"We'll see. We can talk about it in the locker room," Sullivan added firmly, steering Doyle in that direction. Nodding at the two acquaintances they passed he stripped off his sweat-soaked singlet and shorts. "Why do you want to learn?" he asked, peeling off his socks and dropping them on the unsavoury pile.

Similarly occupied Doyle paused, naked save for a jockstrap. "It's something to do."

"Not good enough," said Sullivan, stepping into the shower stall, aware of the angry glare that followed him. He was covered in lather when the water came to an abrupt halt.

"All right," said Doyle irritably, leaning over the adjoining stall, "because I don't like to be beaten. Because if I do something I like to do it well. Is that reason enough?"

"It's a start," agreed Sullivan mildly. Giving the shower head an expectant glance he gasped as icy water flooded over his upturned face.

"For that, I'll take you on. As you pointed out with such charm I could use the exercise," he added, ruefully conscious of his expanding waistline and the additional effort required to keep it in check these days. "Besides, you need keeping in order."

As they changed back into their street clothing his assessing gaze travelled over Doyle. Sullivan wasn't convinced he had recovered mentally, regarding it as his responsibility to ensure Doyle did so.

"Better men than you 'ave tried," Doyle retorted cheerfully, pushing up the sleeves of his sweatshirt before finger combing his still damp hair. Toilet completed, he began to cram dirty clothes into his sports bag.

"Why not leave them here for Saunders to see to?"

Zipping up his bag, Doyle straightened. "One, because I'm a guest of yours and not a member and two, because it costs an arm and a leg to get stuff laundered 'ere. I need the money for the flat right now."

"What flat?" asked Sullivan, following Doyle out of the locker room with a nod of thanks to Saunders.

''The one I'm buyin'."

"I didn't know." His expression a careful neutral Sullivan paused. "You're taking on a mortgage?"

"Only for twenty-five thousand - maximum tax relief."

Knowing how far that would go in London, Sullivan nodded encouragingly. "Where are you moving to?"

"Fulham, and I moved two days ago. I'm still trying to get straight. You fancy a drink?" Doyle added as they emerged into the bustle of Green Park in the rush hour.

Sullivan gave an absent nod. "I know you've done well since you've been with the agency but you haven't been raking it in for the last couple of months. Aren't you over-stretching yourself making the kind of cash payment necessary for a place in Fulham?"

"I know what I'm doing," said Doyle confidently.

"What have you got?"

"Ground floor flat - two-bedroomed. It needs a lot of work doing of course."

"Of course," echoed Sullivan, his expression flint-like as he speculated how Doyle had come by the amount of money needed to top up a twenty-five thousand pound mortgage for a flat in Fulham.

"Eric's said he'll help out with the plumbing in his spare time, Tim's offered the same for the wiring. I'll do some work on their motors in exchange. That's okay with you, isn't it?" added Doyle, slow to sense something amiss.

"Where did you get the money for the flat?" asked Sullivan abruptly.

Only now appreciating what Sullivan had been getting at Doyle stopped in his tracks, an unpleasant smile appearing. "How d'you think, Tony my old mate? Badger job, what else? But then I bet you'd guessed that all along, you bein' so quick and all."

Before Sullivan could comment Doyle had gone, lost in the stream of commuters crowding the pavement.

 

Doyle arrived home a couple of hours later to discover an irritable and self-conscious Tony Sullivan standing on his top step as if rooted there.

"I know you only invite guests inside so don't bother finding polite excuses. Have you eaten?" Taken aback, Doyle shook his head.

"Then you can come out to dinner with me. Get your jacket and button your lip," Sullivan added aggressively. "It's time you stopped being so sensitive."

"I must remember that the next time someone calls me a blackmailing bastard," agreed Doyle, unsmiling.

Muttering something under his breath Sullivan tucked one hand in the pocket of his grey slacks. "I'm sorry. While I was suspicious to a degree I was also worried you might have got yourself tied up with a loan shark. This is for you." He extended a bottle of Chivas Regal.

Doyle studied it with no great enthusiasm. "Bribe?"

"Cele-fucking-bration. You take it or I'll shove it somewhere you'll find hard to ignore. You didn't watch the nine o'clock news I take it?"

Belligerence easing into puzzlement Doyle shook his head. "What did I miss?"

"Report of a nice big drugs bust - Allander, those three friends of his plus six others. Not Glencairn though," Sullivan added with regret.

"Who's 'e?"

"I forgot, you wouldn't know. According to the detectives from Eliots there was a strong possibility the three men worked for him but Eliots couldn't get anything concrete. Obviously the police couldn't either."

"You said 'is name like I should know it."

"Only if you're looking for a change of career whose long-term prospects include a lengthy stay in one of Her Majesty's prisons. He's the man at the top," said Sullivan reluctantly, belatedly remembering sleeping Doyles were best left to lie.

"Tell me more."

"He's a slippery bastard. Everyone's been after him for years but he's clever, he's rich and he has a lot of violent friends. That combination keeps him safe."

"Does it," said Doyle politely. "Thanks for tellin' me."

"Forget him," said Sullivan sharply. "This is for your information only. I mean it this time, Ray. Glencairn's trouble with a capital T. He's behind too much of what's rotten in this city. Anyway, I thought you might like to know about the arrests," he added flatly.

"All that interests me is seein' them put away where I can't get at them," said Doyle, his unsmiling eyes boring through Sullivan.

"They will be. I'm sorry," added Sullivan, turning away. Hearing the front door slam, he sighed, aware of the dent he had dealt to Doyle's pride. Before he reached the bottom step he discovered Doyle was behind him, jacket in one hand, bottle of brandy in the other.

"I'd invite you in for a meal but I forgot to go shopping so there's no food," Doyle explained, as if Sullivan had questioned his appearance. "You mentioned something about a celebration? I'm starving - and buying."

"Not with that heap to maintain you're not. My treat. France's suit you?"

Doyle glanced down at his paint-spattered jeans and grubby trainers and raised a rueful eyebrow. "You'd better hang on while I change."

"Choice is yours. We could always eat at my place."

"Your place," said Doyle. "I don't 'ave to change for that."

"Thanks a lot. It won't be anything special. Marks and Spencer whatever's in the freezer," warned Sullivan as he unlocked the car.

"You're the food snob, not me," Doyle pointed out placidly as he slid in beside the older man.

Fastening his seat belt Sullivan cast a quick glance at his companion. "Is this complacent mood likely to last long?"

"I shouldn't think so," said Doyle cheekily.

There was a comfortable silence between them as Sullivan drove back to his Kensington home.

 

Propped against the sink unit as he watched Doyle prepare a green salad Sullivan said suddenly, "Why aren't you a member of the sports club? It's got the best facilities of any I've come across."

"Me too," agreed Doyle, rummaging through Sullivan's cupboards for a bowl. "I can't afford the fees. Besides, it might embarrass some of the members finding an ex-employee amongst them."

"Not the ones that matter," said Sullivan with certainty. "Besides, you're not exactly the life and soul of the party. I can't imagine you intend to prop up the bar all evening. If it's the fees that are worrying you, don't. You need to keep in shape."

Doyle's high-speed chopping paused. "There are cheaper clubs," he said non-committally.

"But - "

" - where I won't run into old clients of mine," he completed.

"Ah." Disconcerted, Sullivan munched a stick of celery. "You're ashamed of what you do?"

"Why should I be?" returned Doyle, unruffled. "All I do is get paid where others give it away. But when I'm not working I like to relax and be myself. That said, any time you want a workout and swim, let me know."

"Guests of a member can't buy drinks in the bar," said Sullivan dryly.

Doyle gave him a slanting grin. "I know. That lasagne will be done by now."

"You cheeky young devil. Okay, I'll fall for it. How about Mondays?"

"For what?"

"Our weekly workout. As you pointed out so cogently, I'm not getting any younger."

Serious now, Doyle looked up from the table he was setting. "I was only joking. I don't expect - "

"That's half your trouble," Sullivan told him, swearing as he burnt his thumb on the inside of the oven door. "Start now. Anyway, I'll make sure you pay me for the drinks afterwards. Help yourself, and don't pinch all the crispy bits."

The meal eaten, their feet propped on the coffee table and each with a glass of claret, Sullivan slowly became aware of a change in the atmosphere of good-humoured ease that had existed until now.

"What's wrong?" he enquired lazily, refilling his glass. "I won't pretend Matthew's room is palatial but barring the odd detour around Action Man and his Lego it isn't that bad - especially as the boys stay at Gwyneth's during the week. Neither of us can afford to get breathalysed and at this time of the morning you'll have a job getting a minicab."

"Why does it have to be Matthew's room?"

"Because I'm in the middle of decorating Gareth's. Where else did you have in mind?" Looking up and correctly interpreting the sultry light in Doyle's eyes Sullivan ground to a halt. "Er, crossed wires," he said feebly, disconcerted when he recognised the signals he was receiving without any difficulty now, abruptly conscious both of his own body and Doyle's, the younger man exuding a heady sexuality and all by doing nothing.

Dissatisfied with the conclusion he had jumped to, Sullivan frowned a moment later.

"Is the idea I could fancy you so appalling?" asked Doyle, his tone closer to that Sullivan was accustomed to hearing.

"Not if it happened to be true," he replied bluntly. "Turn it off, Ray. You aren't working now and you're certainly not in lust for me. Why did you make the offer?"

It was rare to see Doyle disconcerted, his assurance such that it was easy to forget his comparative youth. Now it became obvious.

"Like you said, crossed wires. I made a mistake, that's all," Doyle muttered, getting to his feet and looking for his jacket.

Taking pity on his obvious embarrassment Sullivan studied his glass. "You've complimented me on the meal you know I didn't cook and the claret I can afford to buy; you've thanked me for the brandy - twice - and set out to be an entertaining guest. Then you offer me the one other thing you think I might enjoy. What you haven't done," he continued, his voice hardening, "is asked a single question about the drugs bust. You wouldn't be trying to thank me for that, would you?"

Pinned by that shrewd gaze a rare colour stained Doyle's face. "I like to pay my debts," he muttered, looking everywhere but at Sullivan.

"There is no debt. It isn't," Sullivan added, "that I don't appreciate the offer but - "

"You don't fancy used goods. It's okay."

Sullivan sat up with a speed that rocked the small coffee table. "Honest to god, you're enough to give a man indigestion. I wanted to celebrate their arrest because they deserve to be put away. And because I know they won't be using someone else for a while the way they used you. I thought it might help you," he added more gently. "You look as if you've forgotten what a good night's sleep feels like."

"I'm fine," said Doyle defensively. "Stop fussing. I can look after myself."

"So you keep telling me," Sullivan agreed, his expression sombre. "You decided not to see Doctor Rosenfeld."

"I don't like shrinks. Don't need one either. I'm fine."

Aware he could achieve nothing while Doyle was in this frame of mind Sullivan remained silent.

"Thanks for the meal," Doyle added awkwardly. "I'll be off. I could do with a walk."

Making no attempt to stop him Sullivan's eyes were sad as he watched the younger man leave, wondering if he would see him again.

 

A week later, walking down Wigmore Street, Sullivan saw Doyle enter the house he knew contained Doctor Rosenfeld's consulting rooms. Discovering by chance from Terry, who was the least garrulous man Sullivan had met, that Doyle was working flat out in the garage he became more hopeful that all was not lost and left it to Doyle to work the problem out for himself, as he wanted.

oOo

Still smiling as the door closed behind Anna, reminding himself not for the first time that business and pleasure did not mix in this field of work, Sullivan heard her exclaim:

"Darling, how lovely! You're back with us. Tony will be pleased. You look wonderful. I must have a chat with you about the car. The wretched thing died on me going round Hyde Park Corner yesterday and a bus driver was most abusive."

As Sullivan had hoped from that, when the door opened it was to reveal Ray Doyle; tanned and relaxed, he seemed somewhat changed in the two and a half months since Sullivan had seen him last.

"Evenin'. I wondered if you'd fancy a meal. My place," Doyle said by way of a greeting.

Sullivan had been disconcerted to realise how much he had missed Doyle's acidic presence around the office, for all that their social contact had been minimal.

"About bloody time you showed up," he said gruffly by way of a greeting. "How was Tuscany?"

"Beautiful. I decided to take my time on the way back. Loire valley, stuff like that. There's a crate of wine for you back at the house. Spanish," Doyle added wickedly.

"Lying sod," Sullivan said. "It's good to see you. Give me five minutes and I can shut up shop. Damn! I forgot, I can't make it," he explained in answer to Doyle's look of query. "It's the school holidays, Mrs Hodges leaves at six-thirty and it's too short notice to get a babysitter."

"Not to worry, it was only a thought," said Doyle. "I'll pop in tomorrow during business hours."

Realising Doyle had heard an excuse rather than the explanation Sullivan had thought he had given, he glared at the younger man. "No you won't. Come back with me and sample some real home cooking. Mrs Hodges', not mine."

"No, I won't intrude on the family," said Doyle, already backing out of the room.

"You're scared of meeting the kids," accused Sullivan with a spreading grin that ensured Doyle found himself accompanying the older man home.

Doyle discovered Gareth and Matthew Sullivan to be as dark as their father and three times as talkative, the more so when they heard Doyle was a mechanic and owned two motorbikes. Doyle found himself taken in tow for a minute examination of their bikes and it was with some difficulty that Sullivan finally rescued him over an hour later, sending the boys to baths and bed.

"Sorry about that but visitors are always fair game," he said on his return from supervising the former, looking both dishevelled and damp.

"I had noticed. They're nice kids."

"Most of the credit for them staying that way can go to Gwyneth."

"Your wife?"

"Sister, adopted sister if you want strict accuracy. The boys live with her during the week term-time. I try and arrange things so I can have weekends and most of the holidays free. It's a mad house here then because I usually have her three for at least a couple of weeks during the summer, plus all their friends. I should have shares in McDonalds. Here's supper. Get stuck in. Bread's behind you if you want any. We'll eat in the other room on trays, you're old enough not to need lessons in table manners."

"More than can be said for you," remarked Doyle, watching Sullivan finger feed himself a Brussels sprout. "I wondered if they might be boarders."

"At their age! Give me a break. They will once they hit thirteen. I've had them down for my old school since they were both three months. And what's that look for?" asked Sullivan, helping Doyle to steak and kidney pudding with a liberal hand.

"I was just wondering what an officer and a gentleman is doing running a brothel," said Doyle, eating a piece of kidney with relish as he walked back into the sitting room, automatically navigating those of Gareth and Matthew's possessions that were strewn across the carpet.

"You've been checking up on me," recognised Sullivan with resignation.

"You don't approve? It only seemed fair in the circumstances," said Doyle placidly, "seein' as you did as much on me before."

"I can't pretend I love the thought but I can understand it," Sullivan admitted. "How far did your investigations take you?"

"Far enough. Relax, I made a few phone calls, that's all. Got curious about all those contacts of yours. How the hell did you end up in this game after the army and stuff? You don't have to tell me," Doyle added, his expression sobering.

"I know," said Sullivan tranquilly. "I think I'm flattered you bothered. It was an accident really. When I resigned my commission we settled on the family farm but I didn't take to the life. That's why I joined up in the first place. I should have been city bred - I've never understood what people see in the countryside. Nesta felt the same. So we sold up and came to London. There was nothing to hold us in Wales, my adopted parents were dead and both Gwyneth and Ruth live in London and Harry's in New Zealand. When we bought this house Nesta and I had problem after problem in getting decent workmen when we needed them. It made me appreciate how impossible it was to get a plumber when you needed one rather than forty-eight hours later. That's when I got the idea for Housecalls. I was sub-contracting labour rather than employing people directly at first. Old chums used us and spread the good word, things took off like a rocket after that. Housecalls was wholly legitimate in those days of course."

"Of course," echoed Doyle gravely.

"Less cheek if you please," said Sullivan somewhat indistinctly, having paused to finish his cooling meal. "The other side of the business started more or less of its own accord. Marie, who was one of the first on my books, had always received the occasional offer from clients that she would accept or not according to her mood. While she told me what was going on Housecalls wasn't involved in any way. Then about eight months before Nesta died an old army friend got himself in a spot of bother. Blackmail of course. His case kept the tabloids busy for nearly a week. By the end of it he had lost everything. It made me realise how much people in the public eye need a discreet, reliable source whereby they can enjoy the same innocent pleasures Joe Public takes for granted."

"Very public-spirited of you," remarked Doyle, his languishing gaze fixed on the bottle of Bordeaux that held approximately one more glassful.

Sullivan pushed it towards him with a resigned sigh. Needing no urging, Doyle helped himself. "Nice drop of stuff, this."

"Couldn't you manage a little more poetry, a gracious reference to its body or bouquet?" said Sullivan plaintively.

"What, and have you thinking you 'adn't bin wastin' your time?" said Doyle, shocked. His smile fading he set his glass down. "I happened to run into one of those private detectives you 'ired for the Allander job. I hadn't realised there was so much money to be made in the business. They're not cheap."

"They get results," Sullivan pointed out.

"I'm not disputing that, only what it cost you. You hired them for seventeen days before there was enough evidence to take to the police. It would have been cheaper for you to let me have a crack at those bastards myself. Setting them up cost you a packet."

"Not as much as you being arrested and bringing Housecalls into disrepute when you came to trial," said Sullivan on what he trusted was a note of finality.

"And that was your only motive?"

"I'm a businessman. There isn't room for sentiment in business."

"Well in that case you'd better let me know what Rosenfeld's bill came to," said Doyle. "I know she didn't talk so how did you know I was seein' her?"

"I'd just left my dentist's when I saw you going in to her office," Sullivan admitted.

"Thought it might be something like that," nodded Doyle. "Send the bill to me. I can afford to pay it," he added matter of factly. "I 'ad a bit of luck on the market."

"The market?"

"Stock market."

"You play the market?" Sullivan righted his tilting glass with some haste.

"Why not, it beats workin' for a living and I seem to have the knack," shrugged Doyle.

"How did you get started on that?"

"How d'you think, insider trading of course. You know who some of my clients at the club were. Plus I listened a lot, asked questions. Found I'd got a feel for it," Doyle shrugged.

"You mean you've never been stung?"

"Course I have but I'm learning all the time. Half the battle's knowing the jargon, the other's bein' prepared to take a risk," Doyle added. "It makes a change."

"If I'd known I'd found myself a financial whiz kid you wouldn't be wasting your time in the garage," said Sullivan with feeling. "You mean you do it for fun?"

"Money, Tony, money. But I do enjoy it," Doyle admitted.

"I bet you do, you young pirate. All right, I'll send you the bill."

"You can take back the ten grand you screwed out of Allander while you're at it. The money's only sitting in the bank. Call me quixotic but I don't fancy blood money, particularly when it's my blood."

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Whatever you like. There's plenty of deserving charities around, if you can't think of anything else to spend it on. I like to pay my debts."

It occurred to Sullivan that Doyle must have had more than a 'bit of luck' on the market. On the other hand, beginning to get the younger man's measure, he knew Doyle was quite capable of bankrupting himself in his determination to escape what he thought of as an obligation.

"We've already had this argument and you lost," he snapped. "You give it away. Better still, keep it as an emergency fund."

"You know, that's not a bad idea," conceded Doyle, a thoughtful look on his face. "I got off lightly that time. Yeah, we'll set up an emergency fund for anyone who can't work for one reason or another. Keep them afloat until they can."

"I meant for you," said Sullivan with exasperation. "Besides that's already - "

" - taken care of," completed Doyle with a grin of comprehension. "Only business my arse. You're a bloody fraud. Bet you've fooled a few in your time. Comes of being built like a brick outhouse I suppose. You're too soft for this game."

"Bollocks," said Sullivan crudely, disappearing to recover another bottle of wine and his equanimity. 

"You're an argumentative little sod. It must be why I've missed seeing you around," he announced on his return. "Here, get some of this inside you. Maybe you'll mellow."

"You reckon?"

"A man can dream, can't he? How's the Suzuki? You've been here a good four hours and haven't mentioned her once."

"Fine I should think. I decided to sell her before I went away," said Doyle casually.

"To help pay for your holiday," recognised Sullivan. "And don't argue with me. You must have a horrible effect on my blood-pressure," he added pensively.

"Rubbish," said Doyle, lazily savouring his wine, "there's a few years left in you yet. Anything exciting happen while I've been away?"

Sullivan told him, editing nothing. As the conversation progressed and he became more convinced of Doyle's grasp of finance, he began to hope he would be able to con him into agreeing to help with the agency's accounts. "We've been busy," he finished.

"And short-handed. You better put me back in the portfolio," Doyle continued conversationally. "I don't mind helpin' Terry out when things get busy but I couldn't stand it full time. He's a great bloke but he isn't exactly a bundle of laughs. Well is he?" he added as Sullivan gave him a dubious look.

"I wasn't thinking about Terry. Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. I gave myself a few test runs while I was on holiday. Then this afternoon I met Greystone. Speakin' of who, bill him for three hours of my time, two at mechanic's rates." A rare warm smile lit Doyle's face. "He's finally admitted that as he can't guarantee to take advantage of me on a given day it'll be cheaper that way. I didn't have the heart to tell him he'd save even more by getting rid of his cars and bikes. It wouldn't be so bad if he'd stop driving them. It's a wonder he hasn't been nicked, he's as blind as a bat. He should have changed my booking months ago because he never spent more time than he had to on the other, and all the time goin' on about his bike. Bet he was hell on wheels when he was younger."

His interest in Greystone minimal, Sullivan was still looking anxious. "You're sure you feel up to this? If it's money that's the problem I can - "

"I'm positive. Give the record a rest, will you. According to Dr. Rosenfeld I'm the one prone to guilt trips and I'm not one of your kids you need fuss over."

"Thank God."

"Cheers. But I appreciate everything you've done for me. Forget it now though. I can."

Looking at the tanned male animal lounging opposite him Sullivan believed him, only now appreciating the new signs of maturity. "It's forgotten," he said with a nod.

"Good. So you can stop feelin' responsible for me. I know exactly what I'm doing. I don't expect any more special treatment, or to gatecrash here again," Doyle continued, gesturing to the room. "You won't want it becoming a habit."

"Work that one out all by yourself, did you? I'll invite who I damn well please into my home," Sullivan told him trenchantly. "Finish that drop of wine you've been tantalising me with and come and have a game of billiards. Maybe you can explain how it is you've been making your fortune when everyone else is losing theirs - including me."

oOo

The friendship between the two very different men stemmed from that unpromising beginning, flourishing despite, or perhaps because of, the disparity in their ages, backgrounds and interests. Once a week they met at the sports club where Sullivan refined Doyle's fighting skills. They continued to meet there even when that excuse was gone, their highly competitive sessions becoming a popular draw with less athletically inclined members. In time Doyle was asked to become a member, agreeing because he discovered that most of his old clients had either moved on or were unperturbed by his joining their ranks.

As the trust between Sullivan and Doyle grew and Sullivan came to appreciate Doyle's grasp of the financial world - something he had never managed to achieve - Doyle found himself steering the older man's personal and professional finances, ostensibly as a favour although Sullivan rightly suspected it stemmed more from the fact Doyle could not bear to see anything badly done.

Although Doyle's own finances were in a healthy state, he continued to work sporadically both as a mechanic and whore. A professional to his fingertips Doyle had no difficulty in attracting bookings of both sexes. Sullivan wasn't surprised by Doyle's success, having learnt that Doyle did exactly what he wanted when he wanted; all that surprised him was that Doyle, twenty-two by this time, had no live-in lover or long-term relationship of his own, seeming content to walk a lone path, his relationships with partners of his own choosing rarely surviving more than a few months. Having met a couple of the ladies, Sullivan suspected it was Doyle who concluded matters the moment a partner become emotionally involved. Worried by Doyle's bleak emotional life, Sullivan knew better than to interfere even while he waited for the axe to fall. He had the feeling that Doyle would be as single-minded in love as he was in everything else he undertook and could only hope that when it happened Doyle would be as fortunate in his lover as he had been in Nesta.

Flicking through the video tape he had commissioned to replace the portfolio Sullivan sighed as Doyle strolled on camera. Dressed in brown velvet slacks and a taupe silk shirt, Doyle wore no ornament; he needed none to sell himself. His innate sensuality betrayed itself even in his walk. Supple and not overtly muscular, he was at the peak of physical fitness, moving with the easy grace of an athlete. With the exception of a sixteen-year-old called Justin he possessed the most exquisite arse Sullivan had ever seen. But Doyle's appeal went deeper, he decided. As Doyle had matured, the hint of aggression behind his easy smile and the suggestion of wildness in his cool green eyes more than compensated for his lost youth.

Having seen enough Sullivan flicked the video off, wondering if Doyle had ever known what it was to be young. Then he wondered what he was doing in this business, and then why winter always made him introspective. Clearing up his office Sullivan went home, the loss of his wife gnawing him anew.

CHAPTER TWO

PART TWO  
JULY l981 - MAY 1982

 

David Bentley was one of four western bodyguards employed by a Middle Eastern prince who had inherited a considerable fortune. In the fifteen years since that date the prince had added to it substantially, returning home only for three months of the year; the rest of the time he travelled, possessing homes in Monte Carlo, London, Rome and Paris. His name and face were unknown to the public at large; the prince expended considerable sums to ensure that remained the case.

A devout Muslim, he neither drank, smoked or gambled and when in his home country was renowned as a family man. In Europe he preferred to diversify his attentions but his passion was reserved for business. An experienced mediator, the prince assisted many of his more troubled neighbours in the Middle East; that he also supplied the arms for one or both sides of the conflict in question was less well known.

Bentley, who had learnt the necessity of guarding his own back at what many would consider a tender age, was one of those so informed. In the thirteen months of his employment he had progressed from a junior security man assigned to one of the twelve teams constantly attending the prince (that post had required him to reserve independent thought only for such time as he should be off-duty) to that of one of four trusted aides. That trust had been hard won, Bentley taking a bullet intended for the prince and disabling the would-be assassin. He had expected no reward for his action, blaming himself for failing to subject the prince's brother to standard security procedures.

Finding his already generous salary quadrupled and the prince a frequent visitor to his private hospital bed, Bentley grudgingly came to respect the man he had previous exchanged no more than ten sentences with. His reluctance was due solely to an ingrained belief that it was a fatal mistake to trust anyone. Bentley remained on the prince's staff, thriving on the new responsibilities he was given and yet to tire of the constant travelling in the cocoon of luxury offered to all of the prince's extensive entourage.

The only times Bentley felt uneasy were when business, or pleasure, took the prince to England, the place of Bentley's birth and adolescence. England held no happy memories for him; with his new identity firmly established he sometimes felt very old when he mixed with his ostensible contemporaries. There were long periods when Bentley forgot his chronological age - twenty - aware that few men had packed so many experiences into such a relatively short life. Bentley neither regretted nor congratulated himself on the fact. Things happened, you accepted them or you turned your back on them and moved on. He had spent the last six years of his life moving on.

Inevitably elements of the job became routine, which was dangerous for anyone in Bentley's line of work. Bored, he craved action. He considered hiring himself out as a mercenary, aware he possessed all the requisite skills, but the best-paying jobs were all in South America and he couldn't face the thought of having to work and live in Spanish. The British army offered another alternative. While joining up would mean a ludicrous drop in both salary and comfort Bentley had begun to wonder if it might not provide just the challenge he was after in the long run. If he was good enough he could find himself in the SAS; he was determined he would be good enough.

 

"I'll arrange a further meeting with Benedotti in Rome for next week," said Bentley briskly.

"Please do so. Any day save Wednesday. I intend to spend Tuesday evening on recreational pursuits and Wednesday in recuperating," said the prince, an anticipatory gleam in his eyes. "I shall give the staff leave but would you and Gomez be good enough to remain on call. I shall be entertaining a guest in the Annexe and should feel more sanguine if the house was not completely unguarded."

"Here!" exclaimed Bentley. While he was accustomed to the prince's habit of indulging himself with what he termed 'English roses', this was a departure he did not approve of, too aware of the dangers.

"Do not worry so, David. Certain precautions will be arranged."

Unconvinced, Bentley nodded, knowing better than to argue with that silken note of finality. The prince had the gift of making commands sound like requests.

"You have decided not to visit the Unicorn Club on this trip?" he asked. He could not pretend he was sorry. While Bentley had escorted his employer to the club only once, and had seen and heard nothing untoward while he remained on guard, he had not enjoyed the atmosphere of the place. The fact that the whores on display had been of both sexes hadn't troubled him, the fact that many looked to be well below the age of consent and stoned had. Bentley's sexual partners were always willing, able and of age.

The prince shrugged. "It became too predictable, too mechanical. Also I understand that some of the staff have been less than discreet of late. I have no wish to disrupt the harmony of my household by inviting scandal."

"You're satisfied your proposed guest will be discreet?"

"He comes with the highest recommendation. I myself glimpsed him yesterday lunching at Luigi's. He is...unusual."

Bentley's heart sank, aware it took a great deal to stir his employer's enthusiasm. "He isn't a professional then?"

"Yes, but he works only rarely these days. When he chooses to as I understand it."

Yet to meet a whore with such freedom Bentley swallowed his derisive comment. "I'll check him out."

"David, David, you must learn not to take life so seriously. For one night I intend to indulge in a small fantasy, no more. Jules is completing negotiations and will ensure that all necessary steps are taken to ensure both my anonymity and safety. Joachim Wietz made the initial recommendation, even you must concede that is warranty enough. Come, your coffee will be cold. Now, what did you make of this McKenzie? Shall we do business with him?"

 

"Ray, rather an unusual assignment has come in. I wondered if we could discuss it."

Recognising the too-bland note in Sullivan's voice Doyle's eyebrows rose, wondering after seven years in the business what could possibly be considered unusual. "Do we have a problem?" he asked bluntly.

"No, nothing like that. But your services have been specifically requested."

"Tough. I'm strictly part-time, you know that."

"The proposed fee is twenty thousand pounds for one night."

Doyle came close to dropping the telephone receiver. "Is this a joke?"

"No joke."

"Two and four noughts?" Doyle checked.

"Two and four noughts," Sullivan confirmed, his voice bland.

The fact he did not elaborate only confirmed Doyle's suspicions. "I'm not goin' to like the deal, am I?"

"Why couldn't they have requested Justin," sighed Sullivan. "No, I don't think you are but I thought I'd mention it. I'll take you out to lunch. Would Luigi's at one suit you?"

All traces of amusement left Doyle's face. An eighty-pound-plus lunch suggested a very unusual assignment indeed.

"I went there yesterday for a business lunch. It's over-rated. I've got a better idea. We'll have a picnic on the Downs. I've had enough of London in August. You can provide the food, and wine. I'll collect you at ten tomorrow morning." He rang off before Sullivan could marshal his protests, knowing the other man's fondness for fresh air extended no further than the carbon monoxide he inhaled while getting in and out of his ancient Jaguar.

 

Having insisted on enjoying the drive in peace Doyle refused to listen to Sullivan's sales pitch until they were midway through the excellent lunch Mrs. Hodges had provided for them.

"In case you put me off my food," Doyle explained.

"Ray, would I try and set you up for anything fishy?"

"For twenty thousand quid it's more a case of who do I have to kill. No one pays that kind of money."

"This client does. I explained you rarely worked nowadays, he hoped this fee might tempt you."

"Come on, give. You can 'ave some more wine when you've spilled the beans."

"I would debate that but it's too hot and I've eaten too much to brawl," said Sullivan lazily, propped on one elbow where he lay sprawled on the grass. "First things first - the client will remain anonymous. Hear me out, Ray. He comes with the highest possible references. The fee covers the period from midnight to six a. m."

"I 'ate bein' kicked out at dawn. What else?"

"I won't deny the request is a little different from our usual jobs," conceded Sullivan.

"How different?"

"Well, um, because of the client's insistence on total anonymity he requests that you be chauffeured to an unknown address in a closed van. You will agree to use a herbal eyewash whose temporary effects are such you will be unable to distinguish between more than light and dark for at least six hours."

"Blind in other words."

Sullivan gave an unhappy-looking nod.

"Is that all?" asked Doyle mildly.

Sullivan wasn't deceived. "Don't start, Ray. I thought you were going to let me finish before you go off like a Chinese firecracker," he said severely. "I've had a word with Roger Ferris. He's confirmed that the eyewash they suggest is kosher; no side-effects, even over half a dozen applications. He guaranteed that so it's safe."

Sucking an ice cube he had taken from the bucket the bottle of wine was sitting in Doyle took the news calmly. "What else?"

Disturbed, Sullivan sat up. "I thought you trusted me?"

"I do, to a point. We've just reached that point. What else?"

"The client will provide a room for your use, decorated to his specification - a velvet cavern. In order that he may feel completely confident that you will not be able to attack him he requests that you permit yourself to be tied to the bed, that will also be covered in velvet," Sullivan added in the tone of one making a clean breast of things.

"Let me guess what 'appens next - a birchin', water sports or does 'e fancy the really heavy stuff? I'm a conservative soul at heart. I like the skin I have." While there was no distaste evident in Doyle's voice there was a chilly light in his eyes.

"Thanks for your vote of confidence," snapped Sullivan, angry in turn because he felt guilty, as if he had let Doyle down in some way. "I've already made it clear someone - me - will accompany you. I've agreed to wear a blindfold until we're in the house. I'll remain in an adjoining room throughout."

"That'll be nice, 'e can start on you when 'e's finished with me."

"Not while I'm carrying a loaded Smith and Wesson he can't. They didn't like that part but they did some checking on me and agreed. It was that or no deal."

"You've gone to a lot of trouble to secure this job. The agency was doing fine last time I saw the books."

"It is but... Forget I asked. I should have known better," said Sullivan. "I didn't realise I was that greedy."

"If you don't ask you don't get," said Doyle, pouring Sullivan some more wine. Fumbling in his small rucksack he produced a bag of nectarines.

"Catch! And mind the juice," he warned, his voice muffled as he took a succulent bite from his own. "Do we know who this mysterious client is?"

Sullivan shook his head. "Not a whisper. But he has impeccable references from three of my oldest clients, none of whom even know of the portfolio's existence. You're not happy about this job, are you?"

Doyle gave him a quizzical look. "I don't have any happy memories of bondage."

"Christ, Ray I..." Appalled Sullivan stared at him. "Forget I asked," he said with decision, tossing the nectarine stone away.

"Litter lout," said Doyle without heat, loping over the sun-bleached grass to retrieve it. "There's enough junk around without you adding to it. So all he wants is my arse on black velvet?"

"The former certainly, but displayed against that background rather than on it. You don't hide your light under a bushel."

Doyle began to laugh and if there was a hint of bitterness behind the amusement only he was aware of it. "You'd better tell me what day to leave free," he said, abruptly sober as he stretched out full length on the springy turf and slid his sunglasses into place.

No happier now he had won Sullivan frowned at him. "I'm certain the client seeks no more than a little role-playing from you. He's obviously a romantic."

"He's a fucking idiot," retorted Doyle without moving. "But for twenty thousand quid we'll humour him."

"Why are you agreeing to do this?" asked Sullivan, dissatisfied. "And don't give me any crap about needing the money."

Doyle was silent for so long Sullivan began to wonder if he would reply. "Because," he said finally, "I'm bored."

"That's no reason," said Sullivan, although he wasn't surprised to hear the admission. "One night won't change that. You've never been fucked on the job," he added with unusual crudity. "Once you commit yourself to this you'll have to go through with it."

"That's the whole point," snapped Doyle impatiently. "The idea scares me shitless and I don't like being afraid. It's time to exorcise a few ghosts."

Sullivan's lunch felt as if it had lodged at the base of his throat. "Do you think this is the best way to go about it?"

Leaning up on his elbows Doyle gave him an unexpectedly warm grin of reassurance. "Don't look so worried. I won't let you down. There is just one thing - " Sullivan raised an eyebrow in query. " - don't forget to load the Smith and Wesson," said Doyle, and now his eyes were cold and unsmiling.

 

Irritated by his swimmy vision that meant he couldn't see his hand in front of his face - or anything else for that matter - Doyle remained motionless after he heard the door close behind the soft-spoken aide who had escorted them to this room.

"It isn't too late to change your mind," said Sullivan, very aware of the bulk of the automatic at his waist and the fact he was sweating heavily, weighed down by guilt-ridden fear.

"Give it a rest, Tony. What's the room like, apart from hot?"

"Tacky," said Sullivan frankly. "There's dark blue velvet on the floors, ceiling, walls, doors - god knows where the windows are. There's only one light - over the bed - and some revolting silver drapes on the walls. The only furniture is the bed. It must be custom made because I've never seen one this big before. You could entertain half a regiment on it."

"Well if I have to, make sure you increase the fee accordingly," said Doyle, his manner tart in an attempt to conceal his apprehension. His sinuses prickling he sneezed three times in quick succession. "Bloody 'ell, that's all I need." Disorientated he walked forwards, caught his shins painfully against something and tripped. His hands going out to save himself, he landed wrist deep in velvet and muttered an obscenity before righting himself.

"You've found the bed I see."

"I wish I could," Doyle growled. Having removed his jacket, he fumbled for his shirt cuffs.

"I'll do that. It isn't too late to pull out," added Sullivan, his unease evident in his voice. He dared not give a clearer warning but his conscience wouldn't permit him to remain silent.

"Leave it," snapped Doyle, brushing Sullivan's hands away. "I've been undressing myself for years." Accustomed to being in control while he was working, the prospect of having none held no appeal. Irritation and the fear he refused to admit to left him deaf to the warning in his companion's voice. Removing his second sock, he said, "I presume you'll be lashing me to the mainmast?"

"Eh?"

"The bed, Tony. You'll be tying me to the bed."

"Oh. Yes. Of course." Flustered for the first time in some years Sullivan gave the room a look of near hatred.

Naked, Doyle remained where he was, his body beautiful in the muted golden light, tanned a deep shade of honey from crown to toe.

"How did you manage an all-over tan?" asked Sullivan, seeking to lighten the mood for his own benefit as much as Doyle's.

"Portugal. Found this small cove while we were out in the boat. Ended up camping there for a week or so," said Doyle, unconsciously rubbing his eyes.

"We?" queried Sullivan. "That's the first I've heard about 'we'. Anyone in particular?"

"For a while, yes. Look, if you want the story of my holiday pick some other time, would you. First things first, eh?"

''Er, yes," Sullivan agreed unhappily.

Doyle padded towards the direction of his voice. "Today is not a day for you to be hungover, Tony my old mate. You are feeling all right?"

"Fine," he lied, albatross-sized butterflies lurching in his stomach. "About, um, tying you..."

"I'll make myself comfortable," said Doyle with only a hint of irony as he got onto the bed. Even stretched at full length he failed to locate the side; conceding defeat he looked up with a wry grin. "First time I've ever got lost on a bed before. Would you mind giving me a few directions to the middle?"

With Sullivan's help he was finally positioned in the centre of the bed; the velvet covering offered a sensual presence it was impossible to ignore, the sleek pile caressing his skin when he slid with it, offering unexpected rough/soft caresses to tenderer areas when he moved against it.

"I think I could take to velvet," Doyle announced. "I wouldn't fancy the bill for cleanin' it though. Still, I supposed that isn't a problem for Mr X." Hearing a soft clink his head rose. "What the fuck's that?"

"Chains. Silver ones. With hand and ankle cuffs."

"No one mentioned chains," said Doyle with a dangerous calm.

"No," agreed Sullivan becoming more unhappy by the minute.

"Lucky I've got a chaperon with me really. Okay, get on with it," Doyle sighed but every muscle had tensed by this time.

A muffled sound from Sullivan made him sit up. "What is it now?" he asked warily.

"I don't believe this. You won't either. The cuffs are lined with velvet. Blue of course. At least you won't get friction burns from them," Sullivan added in strangled tones before he began to laugh in earnest.

In little better state himself Doyle collapsed back on the bed.

"Strewth, I 'aven't laughed so much in years. What time is it?" His eyes running from the combination of tears of laughter, dust from the velvet and eye-drops, Doyle gave a lush-sounding sniff.

"Ten to twelve," discovered Sullivan, a little damp-eyed himself.

Wordlessly Doyle repositioned himself, patient as the older man fiddled with the intricate catches on the cuffs that secured Doyle to the sturdy bed frame.

"Finished," he announced. Having watched Doyle establish his range of movement, he had lost all desire to laugh.

"Then if you don't want to turn into a pumpkin you'd better be off." Turning onto his stomach with a soft jangle Doyle added, "This is enough to turn a man back to the straight and narrow. I'm getting too old for this game, Tony. Velvet-lined hand-cuffs yet! You got a handkerchief I can use? I don't want to look as if I've been having a weep."

Taking the linen pressed into his hand Doyle dried his eyes before blowing his nose with enthusiasm. "Thanks." His chains clinking, he handed the crumpled handkerchief back in what he judged to be Sullivan's general direction.

"Do I have to?" said Sullivan, eyeing the damp bundle with distaste.

"Where would you suggest I hide it? And don't," Doyle warned him, "say the obvious. You'd better push off. I'll see you in the morning."

"Rely on it." No sound had filtered into this velvet-lined cavern, the scented air dust-clogged and still. The only illumination fell on the man spread-eagled on the vast bed, light glinting on the silver links of the chains. Belatedly Sullivan appreciated quite how vulnerable Doyle was going to be for the next six hours. "Ray, I've got to tell you something," he burst out.

"Not now, mate. Go next door," said Doyle kindly, "I'll be fine."

Entertaining serious doubts on that score, and ashamed of having allowed one soft-spoken reference to his sons to intimidate him to the point where he offered Doyle up as a sacrificial goat Sullivan gave an unhappy-looking nod and let himself out of the room.

 

Leaving Gomez in the hallway Bentley prowled around the house, unsettled at the thought of unvetted visitors on the premises. He covered the distance from the second to ground floor in seconds upon hearing his employer's voice over the intercom.

"Relax, David," chided the prince urbanely as he emerged from his study. "There is no emergency, merely a change of plan. Benedotti has put the date of our meeting forward. My plane leaves in ninety minutes."

"I'll change into a suit," said Bentley promptly.

"No, no. Jorge will accompany me. Two teams of men will meet us at the airport and Houssim is already in Rome."

"What about your guest for the evening?"

"Do not remind me of my loss. But business must come first. I am unlikely to have the opportunity to return to London for at least two months. Perhaps I shall have more success then." He shrugged philosophically. "It is of no real consequence. But you, David, have not enjoyed a break from your duties for many weeks. That is not good."

"I'm quite - " began Bentley.

"Must one need before one can desire? I still do not understand you, David. You are young of course. Very young." Under that shrewd brown gaze Bentley felt grateful for the beard that he knew added at least five years to his appearance; that was the only reason he had grown it.

"I believe I am correct in assuming you may enjoy the services of my guest as much as I. If so, you will find him in the Annexe. His contract expires at six a.m. If not, speak with his companion in the Green Room, pay them - you will find the money in the safe in my study - and see them from the house."

Aware of the prince's high standards in his sexual partners Bentley didn't attempt to hide his interest. It had been a couple of years since he had last indulged himself with a man, and never with a professional.

"I see the idea does not displease you," remarked the prince with amusement. "Tomorrow is yours. I will expect you in Rome on Thursday. Pleasure yourself and return to your duties refreshed in body and spirit. You have a restless nature I know. I hope to be able to offer you more stimulating work very soon. Until Friday."

His eyes raised heavenwards Bentley watched him leave, wondering quite what the prince was planning now. That soft stream of chatter was habitual; behind it was one of the most devious minds it had been his pleasure to encounter. The prince was an easy man to work for, if demanding in that he assumed everyone would give of their best. For all the promise of more stimulating work Bentley made up his mind to resign; not only was he bored but he had begun to realise there were many areas in his employer's personal and private life that he knew nothing about. Bodie lived by an unorthodox moral code; while arms-dealing did not contravene it, drug-dealing did.

The mellow chimes of the clock striking the quarter-hour drew him from his abstraction. Hoping the prince's taste would match his own on this occasion, Bentley headed for the Annexe.

 

Possessing an excellent sense of time Doyle grew distinctly restive as his client failed to materialise. He began a mental catalogue of exactly what he would say to Tony Sullivan when this job was over. It did little to distract him; very aware of the vulnerability of his position and fighting a too-active imagination Doyle was in no state to realise that his normal detachment while working had deserted him. Rather than relying on role-playing to see him through the next few hours it was Ray Doyle who lay blind, naked and chained to the bed.

The sound of the door opening seemed very loud in the oppressive silence.

"Bloody hell."

Leaning back against the door the words escaped Bentley as he absorbed the decoration of the room. His gaze returned to the naked figure chained to the bed: a living centrepiece in a world of blue. Only when he saw the curly head turn did he remember Jorge's hasty injunction not to use English.

Aware he had already blown that, Bentley launched into an explanation for the change of plan in halting French.

"It's rather late for the arrangement to be altered is it not?" returned Doyle, having to pause to disentangle the other man's mangled sentences.

"The change was unavoidable and unforeseeable. If you don't like it you may leave now. Otherwise the arrangement at the agreed fee stands," said Bentley firmly. Having ascertained this man's fee for the night he couldn't wait to discover if he was worth it; equally, he wasn't prepared to part with twenty thousand pounds of anyone's money for nothing, whatever the prince had arranged.

"Would you be happier using another language?" asked Doyle politely, every sense straining to evaluate the newcomer. If the worst came to the worst he was confident he could break the fragile chains binding him although he didn't relish the prospect of fighting for his life while blind.

"Which would you suggest?" asked Bentley in equally atrocious German. His enthusiasm for the most delectable arse he had ever seen began to wane; he couldn't fault the body, which was that of a young, thin-fleshed man whose muscles slid just beneath his tawny flesh but Bentley had no taste for bondage or mouthy bedmates - especially those who sounded as if they were laughing at him.

"I have a little Spanish, Japanese, Arabic and Turkish," said Doyle demurely in unaccented English. Turning, he sat up.

The face, decided Bentley critically, didn't live up to the arse. On the other hand he had the sort of looks which could grow on you: that mouth for one.

"We'll use English," he said, reverting to the accents of his youth with relief for all that he made the announcement sound like a concession. Seeing the other man's smile there was a distinct snap to his voice as he added, "What do you think?"

An out-of-reach itch driving him crazy and less than happy with the change of plan or his captive state Doyle forgot diplomacy or the credo that said a customer was always right and made his feelings obvious in three pithy sentences.

"Wonderful command of Anglo-Saxon," remarked Bentley, strolling over to the bed, rubbing his tingling nose. "Which is it to be, me and twenty thousand pounds or a car home?" Far from immune to the lure of the man on the bed, the arrogance in the exotic-looking face contradicting his role for the night and the chains binding him, Bentley was gratified to hear himself sound so matter of fact, the sultry humidity of the room getting to him. A moment later he sneezed five times in quick succession.

"Wonderful," sighed Doyle. "I can leave with a cold whatever I do."

"It's the dust," insisted Bentley, dignity lost when he sneezed four times more before sniffing moistly.

"Use a handkerchief," suggested Doyle.

"Are you staying or leaving?" Interrupted twice by sneezes Bentley's question was devoid of force.

"I suppose we may as well get on with it," said Doyle unenthusiastically. Unable to locate the other man's exact whereabouts he directed a glare as best he could, uncaring if it cost him the night's fee or not. He didn't have to prove that much to himself.

"Well there's a dainty offer," remarked Bentley dryly. "I hope you're not always this welcoming. I'm not sure if I fancy dead meat. Or do you get more enthusiastic later?"

"Suit yourself," shrugged Doyle. "I can always go home and read a good book."

"You can read then?"

"If there are plenty of pictures. Better still I can catch up on Match of the Day - had to miss it to come here." There was a distinct edge to Doyle's voice by this time.

"Which team d'you support?"

The question taking Doyle by surprise he offered the truth. "Everton of course."

"That figures. I'm a Liverpool man myself."

"Maybe you'll grow out of it," said Doyle sympathetically.

After an exhilarating ten-minute debate both men seemed to remember why they were there.

"You want to talk football all night?" demanded Doyle abruptly, all trace of emotion fading from his face.

Not caring for the change and about to reply in kind Bentley realised the other man's too-brilliant eyes were focussed a few feet from where he was sitting before they blinked rapidly.

"Is there something wrong with your eyes?"

"There's supposed to be, remember?" While his earlier apprehension had been banished by their argument over the respective merits of their rival teams, Doyle's inability to focus on anything was driving him crazy.

"How could I, I'm the substitute," said Bentley, sitting down beside him.

"Forgot that," admitted Doyle in near apology. "Your boss or whoever he is wanted a guarantee he'd be both anonymous and safe, hence the closed van, eye-drops and these." Raising his wrists his expression was unconsciously revealing.

"You mean you can't see anything?" said Bentley, appalled; already shaken by this womb-like room he began to wonder if he knew the prince as well as he had assumed.

"Light and dark, mainly dark in here," added Doyle disparagingly.

"So these - " reaching out, Bentley tugged gently on a chain, "weren't your idea either." He was glad to hear it, finding them uncomfortably reminiscent of a brothel he had visited in Algiers and walked out of five minutes later.

It was with a visible effort that Doyle restricted himself to a simple negative. "I take it you didn't decorate this room?" he added, his sense of humour resurfacing.

"Do me a favour. It's bloody hot in here, isn't it? Smells horrible too," Bentley added critically. "It's nearly one. What do you want to do?"

Aware his new client had taken his own lack of enthusiasm very well and reassured by their short, acrimonious conversation, Doyle shrugged. "We got off on the wrong footing. Why don't you go out and come back in and we'll start from scratch. You'll like the sensation of velvet on you."

Bentley gave an audible swallow. "Why not," he croaked. "Before I go I could take those things off you." He refused to use the emotive word chains.

"Key should be on the floor by the door," offered Doyle.

While he didn't actually lunge in that direction his eagerness to be free was unmistakable. Bentley, experiencing an unwanted sensation of fellow feeling, was already more involved with the man than was his habit with chance-met acquaintances. There again, none of them had been Everton fans with an arse you could die for.

"I've got it. Hold still a minute. Have you got a name? I'm David."

"Ray," Doyle offered, giving an unconscious sigh of relief as he was free to reach round and scratch his back.

"Here, I'll do that."

A warm hand took over, finding just the right spot with just the right amount of pressure. Doyle gave a blissful sigh. "That's wonderful. Down a bit."

His hand sliding obediently down the warm skin until his finger tips brushed the defined cleft of the arse he wanted so much Bentley was inclined to agree, his body growing more enthusiastic by the minute.

Aware of the change in touch and the quickening breathing rate of the man behind him Doyle's head turned, half knowing, half amused. "There doesn't seem much point in you goin' out just to come back in. We seem to be getting on fine now. Maybe you should take off some clothes. Before it's too late," he added, his hand settling over its target with unerring aim.

Bentley's intake of breath owed little to amazement as a sure touch encouraged him to grow.

"Let me undress," he suggested hoarsely, having no wish to strangle himself in his well-cut but tight-fitting slacks.

"I do seem to 'ave an unfair advantage," agreed Doyle, taking pity on him. Leaning back on his elbows he felt a pleasurable pulse of anticipation, aware this was one job he was going to enjoy. This client was one of his choosing, even if he didn't have a clue what the man looked like; he certainly felt good.

Leaving the bed with more haste than dignity Bentley stripped and looked round, not wishing to leave his clothes on the floor.

"You'd think there'd be one cupboard," he remarked plaintively, "even if it is velvet-lined. Where have you put your stuff?"

"Tony took my clothes next door with him."

"Next door?"

"That's right. In view of your boss's requirements I wanted a little insurance of my own."

"This Tony is watching us?" asked Bentley, sounding less than thrilled.

"Only listening."

"Listening!" Consternation echoed in Bentley's voice.

"The bedsprings don't squeak," Doyle reassured him gravely.

Bentley realised his glare was wasted but delivered it anyway. "That isn't the point," he said severely. "I'm not sure if I fancy the idea of someone..." His voice trailed away.

Biting his inner cheek in case he laughed Doyle was all solemnity, realising this innocent had not stopped to think what Tony would be listening for. He was in the mood to find such naivety endearing.

"The walls here are probably thicker than in most hotels," he said comfortingly.

"They might be but you don't usually know who's next door."

"You two don't know each other."

"This is all one big joke to you, isn't it?" snapped Bentley.

A rueful expression on his face Doyle rubbed his nose and gave an engaging grin. "This is more my world than yours, that's all. Do we 'ave to waste time arguin' about it? Get rid of your clothes and come back to bed. I'll be very quiet," he promised wickedly.

"Sod," said Bentley, his grin apparent in his voice. "I can't find anywhere to put them. At last!" he exclaimed as a portion of the wall sprang open to his fumbling touch.

The swinging door revealed a seven-foot high closet; not only was it full but it very obviously wasn't intended for a wardrobe. Staring at the contents, recognising the purpose of no more than half of the implements, Bentley's face tightened in comprehension, his stomach giving a queasy lurch. Instinctively he slammed the door to a padded close, his clothes a forgotten heap on the floor.

"You've gone quiet. Anything wrong?" asked Doyle.

Swinging back to him, on the point of walking out, Bentley remembered with a jolt of shock that Ray didn't even know the identity of his client, which made it unlikely he would have agreed to anything beyond a straightforward job - or as straightforward as it could be in chains. It was obvious Ray had hated wearing them.

"No," he replied, slow to recover from the shock of his discovery; not in the things themselves, he wasn't that much of an innocent, but that the prince should own and want to use them on a human being. If it hadn't been for Benedotti calling that meeting early the prince would have been in here with Ray; would have been using those obscene things on Ray. Twenty thousand pounds to break beauty down...

In that moment Bentley mentally tendered his resignation, governed as much by a personal sense of betrayal as by revulsion.

"I'm fine," he added woodenly, desire dead in him.

"The hell you are," said Doyle with some force, clambering over the bed in the direction of the other man's voice, anxiety on his face. "What's wrong?"

The warm, rough query penetrated Bentley's defences but he didn't contemplate telling Ray the truth.

"If you must know I stubbed my toe," he lied, injecting a sulky note into his voice.

Doyle's expression lightened before he gave a sympathetic grimace. "You'd better rest your feet then."

Bentley found himself being drawn onto the vast bed. Neither acceding nor resisting, the touch of Ray's skilled hands rapidly became his own reality, smothering thoughts of what could have been with the knowledge of what would be.

"That's more like it," murmured Doyle finally. "What d'you fancy doing next?" he added when they lay in a tangle of warm flesh and relaxed limbs. He undulated in gentle encouragement, having confirmed to his own satisfaction that David was young and well-made, his power leashed under sleek, clean-tasting skin, his hair long and springy, his beard short, thick and silky.

"You," said Bentley baldly. His palms damp, his usual confidence began to ooze away as he stared into the smiling confidence of his companion's face, abruptly aware he was matched with an expert in a field where he was no more than an unpractised amateur and worrying how he would measure up. Belatedly he realised that Ray's smile had become fixed, his manner distant for all their physical proximity.

"That sounds wonderful." Doyle unconsciously began to slide behind the protection of his professional persona.

"Don't!"

Grabbing hold of Doyle, his fingers digging into the hollows by his collar bones, Bentley kissed the mouth he had hungered for, first hard and urgent, then with a slow care, coaxing the response he craved. He never knew how close he came to being disabled.

A stranger's hands at his throat, David's tongue gentling him, Doyle only just stopped himself from biting down and lashing out, neither action one he permitted a client to indulge in. Both were too dangerous, if for very different reasons.

"Don't what?" he mumbled in obvious confusion when his mouth was his own again, hauntingly aware of the seductive sweetness of that kiss.

"Don't act with me. I want... Oh fuck it," Bentley muttered in embarrassment as he released the other man, not sure himself what it was he wanted.

Doyle began to speculate about David's real age. While the body was that of a man, not a boy, stripped of assurance his voice sounded very young. Faced with the other's uncertainty his own doubts slid away. "What is it you want?" he prompted again, his voice kind.

His caressing hand was pushed away. "Don't bloody patronise me! I want a willing partner. If you're in the mood then forget it's a job and enjoy yourself. If you're not, take the money and get out. I don't want a bought fuck!"

Wondering how many times he had heard that, if not voiced quite so bluntly, Doyle couldn't bring himself to shatter the other man's illusions. He would have given a lot to see his face.

"You don't want much do you?" he scoffed with gentle mockery.

His head shooting up, the crown of Bentley's head caught Doyle's chin with a force that made Doyle bite his tongue. He gave a yelp of surprise, his eyes watering with pain.

"Oh fuck it," mumbled Bentley, scarlet with mortification. "I'm sorry. God knows what made me think this could be a good idea."

"Inspiration on your part," said Doyle, gaining in enthusiasm as his companion's waned.

"I think I've lost the mood," said Bentley sulkily.

Frankly chuckling by this time Doyle's hand settled over a broad shoulder, his fingers closing and opening over the warm flesh.

"Don't be such a defeatist. Things can only get better. You'll see." Seduced into defying his own long-standing rule he leant forward and kissed a paying customer.

They began slowly and finished fast, hungry for sweet man flesh; their frenzy quietened they dozed for a short while, tangled stickily on the crumpled and stained velvet. Bentley forgot his doubts about measuring up to Ray's professional standards and Doyle fell in love.

Having abandoned his usual defences Doyle had not thought to be wary, recognising the danger to himself only when it was too late, the trap sprung around him. It wasn't that David was such an impressive lover, or because he was young with a beautiful body but the fact he made Doyle laugh, then cry out with pleasure and laugh again; that he made him forget they were anything but a couple making love.

Sprawled on the sensuous velvet pile that seemed to offer another living presence, like some great benign animal they both rode, Doyle felt the trap close on him as Bentley's mouth nuzzled the vulnerable nape of his neck, the slow touch of caressing hands telling him he was beautiful even before a breathless voice offered the words. Then David's slickly anointed bulk replaced the careful fingers that had stroked his nerve endings awake, filling him, the slow inexorable strokes gathering pace, taking him over and over again with each increasingly deep thrust, his body screaming its consent.

Caught between terror and fury that he should fall into the oldest trap of all - a john for chrissake! - and desperately afraid he would betray himself, Doyle tensed. His teeth closed over the crumpled velvet to stifle a whimper of rage and grief as he willed David to finish it, denying the pleasure, willing the pain because that was easier to accept right now.

Feeling David falter, distantly aware of the tight, questioning voice Doyle's eyes opened. He forced out harsh words of obscenity and encouragement, easing himself up and back, determined to speed things up so he would be free to go home and begin to forget the night he had made a fool of himself. Mind and body divorced, he drove them both.

Wholly vulnerable in the moment of his wrenching climax Bentley collapsed, his gasps for air a moist caress across Doyle's shoulders.

Expecting to remain half stifled Doyle felt David stir and slip from him before he was half turned onto his side, careful hands travelling down his back and buttocks in stroking, exploratory caresses.

"I hurt you. I'm sorry. I meant to make it so good for you. I'm not very good at this."

Unable to see, Doyle was forced to rely on sounds and touch. The misery in David's voice the last thing he had been braced for he sat up, staring sightlessly at the pale blur he knew to be David's face.

"You did," he said but his voice cracked on the lie. Certain all the turbulence of his emotions must be rawly exposed he could neither move nor speak.

Blunt, strong fingers laced through his hair. "No," said Bentley sadly.

His skull cradled between unsteady hands Doyle felt the mouth that nuzzled his temples and cheek, licking away the sweat there.

"I'm so sorry. So very sorry."

Overset by the tender ferocity in that whisper and wanting David with an immediacy that frightened him Doyle remained dumb and unresponsive. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"I wanted you to want me," added Bentley.

That wistfulness was Doyle's undoing. A moment later he was on the other man, pinning Bentley with a strength that bordered on desperation as he clumsily brought himself off between the other man's powerful thighs. Wrapping himself around that thrusting strength, Bentley urged him on.

Losing all sense of his surroundings Doyle recovered to feel hands smoothing his spine once more. Aware of the uneven rise and fall of David's ribcage and hearing the echoing rumble beneath his ear Doyle's head rose in disbelief.

"You're laughing!"

"Yeah." Bentley hugged him with exuberant delight. "You wanted me all right. You wanted me so bloody much you couldn't wait. Wouldn't have thought a skinny sod like you could be so strong," he teased.

"So?" snapped Doyle, defiance and belligerence mingled in his face as he wriggled free to sit up.

"I'm glad." said Bentley with disarming simplicity. "But I wish I'd known you wanted me that much. You could have gone first - in me. I didn't mean to hurt you." His sombre tone was reflected in the shadowing of his face.

Doyle forgot his resolve. "Come 'ere," he commanded roughly, holding David close, the future a nebulous, hazy reality he preferred not to think about. 

"Daft sod," he chided some time later, his fingers twining the thick hair where it brushed the nape of David's neck. "Your first time, was it?" he added delicately, answered by the tensing of the muscles beneath his hands. "Not that it matters. Next time will be better," he comforted, not fully aware of what he was saying.

"Who for?"

"Both of us, of course. I didn't mean to freeze you out. It's just that I don't ever allow a... That is..." It was Doyle's turn to falter as he felt David's surprised intake of breath.

"Why did you let me?" It was obvious from Bentley's voice that his confidence was returning.

Trying to withdraw Doyle scowled and felt his hair being ruffled. 

"Your face will stick like that if you're not careful," Bentley warned him.

"I wish I could see you," Doyle burst out in frustration.

"You will. Live in London, do you?"

Doyle nodded, willing to swear he could feel the eyes fixed on him. Unconsciously his arm went round the other man, his palm settling on the broad back, tracing gently up and down the puckered scar over David's left shoulder blade.

"Good. I'm packing in this job as of today. I'll be living in England from now on."

"David, I - "

"I'm not sure if I'll be based in London when I get myself fixed up with a new job but if not I'll get back as often as I can."

"Look, David, I - "

"You don't want to see me again."

"It isn't that," said Doyle irritably, cornered into telling the truth by that flat, empty-sounding voice.

"Then what?"

"Our lifestyles aren't exactly compatible," he pointed out.

"Is that all," sighed Bentley with relief. "How d'you work that out?" The teasing note left his voice. "I want to see you again, Ray. More than once and not just in bed. I reckon we could... That is I reckon we could be good mates." Losing confidence it became a question and Doyle went under for the second time that night.

"So do I," he admitted with gloom. "Must be as mad as you."

"I never doubted it."

"You're a big help," grumbled Doyle, but his heart wasn't in the protest.

"It'll work out," Bentley reassured him.

Almost believing him by this stage Doyle's smile lit his entire face. "Maybe."

"Blimey, no one's going to sell you a used car, are they? I mean it."

"So do I," admitted Doyle with reluctance before he grinned as he heard the muffled yawn. "I should think so. You deserve to be knackered."

"You mean you're not?" said Bentley with a trace of disbelief.

"I wouldn't say no to a nap," Doyle admitted. "But it seems a shame to waste the time till I have to go."

"I could always leave with you," suggested Bentley, a diffident note in his voice. "I can't offer to take you back to my place because I don't have one but we can go to a hotel."

"No point," said Doyle. "You can stay at my flat." In the silence that followed he heard Bentley swallow.

"Do you mean that?"

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't," said Doyle, irritable when he realised how greatly he had committed himself.

"I won't sponge off you. I'm not destitute or anything," said Bentley belligerently.

Doyle glared in his general direction. "I never thought you were. Bloody hell, stay in a soddin' hotel."

"Are you always this bad-tempered?" asked Bentley. He sounded remarkably untroubled by the possibility.

"That's for you to find out," said Doyle with a reluctant grin.

"I know."

Bentley's obvious anticipation was unmistakable and Doyle found himself smiling again.

 

A furious knocking woke them. Doyle shot up, rubbing his eyes as he tried to focus.

"Stay there," hissed Bentley, already half off the bed.

His vision still too fogged to be able to do more than distinguish between light and dark Doyle heard the door open, catching little more than the odd word of the low-voiced conversation; above David's deeper tones he could hear a lighter, panicky voice: not English. The door closed and the mattress dipped, a hand resting on his arm before it was removed.

"I have to go. Did you see - ? Oh, you can't yet, can you," recognised Bentley. The sounds of urgent movement betrayed the fact he was dressing. "There's trouble - my boss. I can't walk out on him now. Soon as it's over I'll be back."

"Where will you be?"

"Abroad. Italy, probably. Two weeks at the most. I've had this job but right now they need me. I want to see you when I get back. Can I?"

Questions tripping over themselves to be asked Doyle restricted himself to essentials. "Yes."

A hand cupped the nape of his neck as Bentley gave him a swift kiss.

"One in a million, you are. I'll ring you as soon as I can. I'll explain more too."

Realising David was leaving Doyle launched himself from the bed, catching hold of him more by luck than judgement. "You don't know my number."

There was a startled pause.

"I'd forgotten that," Bentley admitted. "It feels like we've... Anyway, Jules, the bloke who booked...who organised... He has it."

"Sure," said Doyle with unconscious bitterness, recognising the note of constraint and its cause.

Hard hands gripped his shoulders, tightening to the point of pain. "I meant it, Ray. And I should be gone," Bentley added with a groan, obviously torn.

Grasping the pale blur of David's face between his palms Doyle kissed him. "Be careful," he commanded gruffly, having discovered his lover to be wearing a shoulder holster; it hadn't been empty.

"I always am. Make sure you are. I must go."

Doyle gave him a gentle push. "I'll wait for your call. Can even say I'll be seein' you. I hope you're not ugly."

"Me? Tall, dark and handsome, I am," said Bentley with mock affront. "We'll make a lovely couple." Then he left.

Hearing the door click to a close, enfolded in the silent stillness of the room, Doyle slumped onto the edge of the bed, feeling ridiculously bereft considering he had known the man for a scant few hours. If there had been anything breakable to hand he would have smashed it. As there wasn't he took a deep breath, edged blindly around the bed and began searching along the velvet-covered walls for the door that would take him to Sullivan and his clothes.

 

"I should have told you," repeated Sullivan, blind to the extensive breakfast menu he held. The hotel restaurant, sparsely dotted with business-suited figures equally occupied, had seemed the perfect watering hole. After six and a half hours of imagining the worst and hearing nothing until the door had opened to reveal Doyle, he was exhausted.

"It doesn't matter," said Doyle absently, wishing he had been able to see this clearly an hour and a half ago, wondering where David was now and when they would meet again.

"The hell it doesn't. I had a bad feeling about this job - then I get a threat - and instead of pulling you out I let you go through with it!" said Sullivan explosively, wanting to atone and getting no help from his companion. "I could have got you killed."

"But you didn't," said Doyle soothingly, responding to the tone rather than the content.

"I threw you to the wolves," hissed Sullivan with frustration, wishing Doyle had been listening to him for the last fifteen minutes.

"That's one interpretation. I thought you were pissed last night, instead you'd been worrying yourself silly about me. The bloke came with good references. There's no way he'd risk anything too heavy in his own house." He could still feel David's hands on his body and was willing to swear he would recognise his voice anywhere - here for preference.

"Maybe not but I shouldn't have - "

"I'll thump you in a minute," said Doyle mildly. "And we wouldn't want that because not only am I in a good mood, but it would upset the head waiter no end. Will you give the record a rest? The job's over, forget it."

"I feel like I've let you down," Sullivan said miserably, fiddling with his cutlery.

"Why?" sighed Doyle with resignation, realising he would have to concentrate for a few minutes more.

"Yesterday afternoon I started worrying why anyone should offer that much money. I decided to pull you out. I rang up the go-between and... Hearing him mention the boys frightened me shitless. And so I let myself be talked round and made you go through with it."

"He mentioned the boys?"

"Yeah, and - "

Doyle waved him into silence. "Did he mention them by name? Or describe them, or suggest they were being followed?" he asked, this tolerant line of questioning far from the reaction Sullivan had been braced for.

"No, but... I had a couple of our people take them to school and keep Gwyneth's place under surveillance."

Doyle's mouth quirked.

"What's so bloody funny?" demanded Sullivan belligerently.

"Nothing," he choked, before giving way to the laughter that had been bubbling in him all morning, the cause only partially to do with the older man. "Oh, Tony. I know you like to see all sides of a problem but honest to god. Has it occurred to you that the poor bugger, not wanting to lose his commission, was probably trying to butter you up by complimenting you on your children? If that hadn't worked he'd have probably gone on to your reputation for reliability. Yeah," he said as he saw Sullivan's expression change to one of dismay and embarrassment. "Do both of us a favour and think about the conversation with him again, with that in mind."

After a few minutes' silence Sullivan gave him an abashed look. "You could be right," he conceded moodily. "But he sounded like a cross between Peter Lorre and - "

"You were feeling paranoid," teased Doyle affectionately.

Sullivan scowled and gave an unwilling nod, knowing he would never live this down. "I've made a prat of myself, haven't I?" he sighed.

"Nothing new in that. Though with all the worrying you do, by rights you should have more grey hair. Now will you relax and feed me. I'm starving."

"I feel a complete fool," grumbled Sullivan, who after a review of his conversation with the Spaniard was prepared to concede he may have misinterpreted elements of their conversation. The absent smile he received only confirmed there would be little point in expecting serious conversation from the younger man this morning.

While he lounged back in the chair Doyle was almost crackling with vitality, looking incandescent with some inner light, his eyes sparkling, a smile hovering around his mouth. Sullivan viewed the sight with some dismay.

"I can't say I like the fact your assignment was changed at the last minute," he said, probing around the subject with care. "Do you want me to register a protest?"

Doyle gave him a blank look before shaking his head. "No. No protest," he said with a private smile. "None at all."

Having seen Ray Doyle in a number of moods Sullivan wasn't sure what to make of this one. If he hadn't known better he would have said Doyle was in love but if that was the case he would have noticed before this morning. The change was too marked for him to have missed it. Gripped by a sinking sensation, he said, "You haven't become involved with a client, have you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Do I look stupid?"

Moving from his freshly-squeezed orange juice Doyle attacked his full English breakfast with obvious relish but every so often his fork hung suspended while he smiled at nothing in particular.

Not stupid, recognised Sullivan sadly, just the oldest cliché in the book: young and in love.

oOo

Bentley recovered consciousness in the hospital just outside Rome to discover he had lost twenty-two hours after the car crash that had injured his taxi driver as he swerved to avoid a pedestrian.

Cursing his bad luck for having picked the only driver in Italy with a love for humanity Bentley made his report to the patiently waiting police, relieved to see his luggage sitting undamaged in the corner of his room. As soon as he was alone he asked for a telephone.

Gaining no reply from the prince's penthouse flat Bentley rang two contacts; he found neither of them. It was only when he watched the evening news that he learnt of the car bomb that had killed his employer, three other passengers, one passer-by and injured eight more the previous evening.

Twenty-four hours ago he would have pursued his inquiries; after the velvet room and the discovery of the contents of that closet his loyalties and priorities had changed. Satisfied he had recovered as much as he needed to, Bentley discharged himself from hospital and set about muddying his trail, the years of caution too engrained for him to think of doing otherwise.

Feeling no more than sore and a little shaky after his flight to Paris in the name of Eamonn Wheatley, Bentley picked up a newspaper and froze upon seeing the front page headline of the bombing of a house of a wealthy Middle Eastern businessman: four dead, ten injured. Obtaining the necessary change he began a series of telephone calls that did nothing to reassure him. Each foreign residence owned by the prince had been destroyed. The death toll was high, including all those Bentley had known and worked with; he had liked a few of them. Telephoning further afield he could gain no news of the prince's family: it was as if they had never existed.

Sweating heavily by this time, and offering mental thanks to his taxi driver for inadvertently saving his life, Bentley decided it was time for David Bentley to vanish without a trace. He had been too closely associated with the prince in recent months to have escaped notice and there was a risk that the publicity when the Italian police began to search for him would alert the enemy to the fact he was still alive. From the scale of the attacks that ranged across Europe to the Middle East this had been a well-planned operation, expensive to run and using a lot of men. Political, he decided.

An orderly man by nature, Bentley's plans were quickly put into operation. He took the first flight out of Paris to Munich under the alias of Vincent Oakley, abandoning all his luggage save for a shoulder bag that contained all he needed. Blending in amongst the tourists he spent two hours ensuring he wasn't being followed before leaving the tourist route. It took him only a short while to find a back-street barber patronised by locals. Forty-five minutes later he emerged feeling unexpectedly naked without the camouflaging beard that had added years to his age, his cropped hair subtly altering the contours of his face.

An hour later he had a new set of clothes, indistinguishable from those worn by half the men around him. Only then did he return to the airport, flying to Geneva as Steven Thomas. The following morning he left his hotel immediately after breakfast. It took him only two hours to liquidate all his funds. Retaining only two of his six aliases, he flew to Britain. In the gentlemen's toilet at Heathrow he disposed of his final alias.

Returning unremarked to the land of his fathers, only then did Bentley use his birth name. Having paused to buy himself a new wardrobe of basics, he abandoned his German purchases in the changing room and clad in the best the English high street could offer, booked himself into a comfortable hotel in Kensington as William Bodie.

Aware that his next priority must be to establish a concrete background for himself if he wished to join the British army, Bodie decided he had earned a few days' rest. He was in no doubt who he wanted to spend them with.

It was only when he picked up the telephone, disconcerted to find his palm damp and his hand unsteady with nerves, that he realised he didn't know how to contact Ray.

Those few hours on that velvet bed much on his mind until they had been overthrown by recent events, Bodie had forgotten the speed with which they had parted and his blithe assurance that Jules would know where to contact Ray.

Jules had. As had the prince. Perhaps even Jorge had known. They were all dead.

His sense of loss so acute it was almost a physical pain, Bodie stared blankly at the telephone before replacing the receiver, mentally castigating himself for being stupid enough to imagine a male hooker could mean anything but a good fuck.

Five hours you knew him. No one can fall in love with a perfect stranger in five hours. He's a whore. One in a long line you were, mate.

For all that, Bodie's mood lightened when, after a restless night with too much whisky and too little sleep, he remembered the prince mentioning having seen Ray at Luigi's restaurant.

 

His questions regarding the identity of a curly-haired man in his early twenties being met with unhelpful disapproval Bodie spent a fortune on unwanted meals at Luigi's, arriving ten minutes before the restaurant opened for lunch and leaving only when ordered to. After four days he found himself being warned off and took to sitting in the window of the Pizza Hut on the opposite side of the road.

After two days Bodie took more positive steps, visiting every gay bar, club and brothel he could locate. Not a natural investigator, his manner won him nothing but suspicious silences, two warnings and one attempted beating.

In a more positive frame of mind after the fight, which he won on points, Bodie went to watch Everton play at Birmingham, spending all his time watching the crowd. He saw no one he recognised. Slowly accepting the impossibility of searching for one man in a city the size of London Bodie finally admitted he needed help to trace Ray.

Unable to go to the police or to use any of the contacts he had established as David Bentley, it was then he thought of hiring a private detective.

He held out against the idea for thirty-six hours, savage with his own romanticism. But he couldn't forget Ray, or his unguarded expression when he had watched him get ready to leave. The memory led Bodie into one of the most embarrassing interviews of his life. At the end of it he had hired himself the services of a private detective, whose carefully neutral expression made Bodie even more irritable.

That wasn't the only agency Bodie used. Defeat wasn't a word in his vocabulary; slowly he ran out of options as none of the agencies he hired managed to come up with a lead. His own background expensively established by this time, Bodie joined the army. Gradually the memory of that one night was pushed into the recesses of his mind as the demands of his new career became more insistent.

oOo

"Any calls for me?"

A look of resignation on his face, Sullivan sat back in his chair. "Ray, how many times have we had this conversation over the last couple of months? Why should you care, you aren't taking any bookings."

"I've just spent ten hours in the garage," said Doyle, immediately on the defensive.

"Thank goodness we don't get many clients calling here, you're not exactly an advertisement for gracious living. Don't sit down, I don't want oil over everything. As I said, you aren't taking any bookings. Are you listening to me?"

"Of course," said Doyle with little conviction. "I'm okay for cash."

"I'm glad to hear it. You can buy me a pint."

"What about - ?" Doyle gestured to Sullivan's cluttered desk.

"Fuck 'em all," said Sullivan succinctly, getting to his feet.

"I've done my best," said Doyle, making heavy weather of the flippant retort.

"First I've heard of it," said Sullivan, giving a quick explanation to Maggie in the outer office.

"You sound fed up," noted Doyle belatedly. "What's up?"

Sullivan gave him a wry grin that imperfectly concealed his affectionate exasperation. "Nothing. Clients. London. I could do with a holiday."

"So take one," said Doyle, following him out onto the street and turning up his jacket collar against the drizzle.

"I'd like to but who will look after the agency? There are enough problems without Maggie having to cope single-handed. Besides, there are portfolio bookings made for up to six weeks ahead. She doesn't even know about that side of the business. What if there's any trouble? I should have stayed on the bloody farm."

"To do what? I don't know about a pint," said Doyle critically, "you sound as if you need something stronger. I'll look after the agency while you're away - if you'll trust me."

Sullivan stopped in his tracks. "You mean that?"

"Sure."

Sullivan slung an arm around Doyle's shoulders. "I knew you had to be good for more than tracking oil onto the carpet. You're on, boyo. I can spend half-term with the boys and then take off. God, I can't remember the last time I had a holiday to myself. And what's with that trust crap? Considering you know everything there is to know about my finances - personal and agency - that's a bloody stupid thing to say."

"Financial advice," shrugged Doyle. "Any accountant would do as much."

"Well none of mine ever managed what you have over the last couple of years. I don't want to socialise with 'em either. _And_ you wouldn't take a client's kids out, or have to avoid their sister's matchmaking."

Doyle jumped. "How did you know?"

"I didn't until you told me. I know Gwyneth, that's all. I'll tell her to lay off you."

His hands in his pockets Doyle chuckled, genuinely amused. "No, don't do that. I can't wait to see who she comes up with next time. It wasn't a niece of a friend of hers this time. This one was six foot two with melting brown eyes. Gay son of yet another friend."

"Oh shit. Ray, I'm - "

"Relax, I didn't mind. It was a nice thought on her part. She means well. And he was gorgeous, but not fanciable, you know?"

"She wants to see you settle down, along with the rest of the population," Sullivan growled. "I've suffered from her little schemes myself."

"Yeah? 'Ow many friends has she got with gay sons?" asked Doyle, all innocence.

Sullivan pushed him into the pub.

"Not funny, " he said, handing Doyle a pint as they moved over to a free table. "I got this lecture last month about looking after you better." He gave his companion a pointed look.

"Eh?"

"She's got it into her head that you're suffering from the pangs of unrequited love. For me," Sullivan hissed.

"Wish I'd known," sighed Doyle when he had stopped laughing.

"I may turn yet," warned Sullivan, giving him a brooding look.

"Not with me you won't. I haven't got so many friends I want to lose one," said Doyle, his mind elsewhere.

Sullivan knew that must be the case because Doyle wasn't usually so revealing. "You can't be friends with your lovers?"

"Not that I've noticed. Skip it, Tony. Did I think to tell you I saw Fennor and Irvine yesterday? They want me to represent the club next month."

"You and those bloody guns of yours. Ray, can I ask you something?"

"I've never been able to stop you yet."

"I'm serious."

"Then I'm listening," said Doyle, leaning forwards, an intent look plastered in place.

"You'd drive a bloody saint to drink, you would," Sullivan grumbled. "I haven't heard much about your social life these last couple of months."

"Nothing much to tell," said Doyle, withdrawing.

"I know. That's my point. Has there been anyone since Madeleine?"

It took Doyle a moment to place her. "No. Why?" he asked, his gaze coming back into focus, not caring for this line of questioning.

Sullivan ignored the warning signals. "Because for the last couple of months you've done nothing but moon around the place and jump a foot every time the phone rings. Since the velvet job in fact."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Unintimidated, Sullivan took an unhurried mouthful of beer. "You're a bright lad, you work it out. I thought the job went fine."

"So did I."

Looking up Sullivan saw the unguarded misery on Doyle's face. "Want to talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about," said Doyle, staring into his glass. "Just remind me not to get so snotty next time Justin burbles on about having found the real thing," he added with acid self-mockery.

This no more than he had suspected Sullivan gained no pleasure in hearing he had been right. He could think of no comfort to offer, or nothing Doyle would want to hear; he had no time for platitudes himself.

"It didn't work out then?"

"That's one way of putting it. I haven't seen him since. He said he'd ring me when he got back. I believed him. That's what cracks me up, I really believed him."

"Things could have taken longer to sort out than he thought," said Sullivan without much conviction.

"That's what worries me. I keep wondering if he's all right. I don't know what he does for a living but I could make an educated guess. He got called away, an emergency. Said he'd be in Italy for a few days. He was wearing a gun," added Doyle colourlessly.

"So that's why you were so insistent I try and find out something more about the original client?"

"That's why. Don't look so worried. It's a stage everyone has to go through, right? I won't get fooled again."

Behind the melodrama was a bedrock of determination; the latter was both Doyle's greatest asset and liability. Twenty-two was too young to cut himself off from emotional contact, decided Sullivan.

"I lied before," he announced, aware Doyle's head had shot up. "I made enquiries when you asked. Called in a few favours. I'm sorry, Ray. It's bad news. The client was a highly ranked Middle Eastern mediator. He and his three bodyguards were killed in a car bomb in Rome the day after the velvet job. Every home he possessed has been destroyed, his known associates murdered."

His face set in stone, his eyes wide and blind, Doyle stared through him, colour bleeding from his face.

Catching the barman's eye Sullivan ordered two double brandies, wrapping Doyle's cold fingers around the glass when it arrived.

"Drink," he urged quietly. "You've had a shock. Drink it, Ray."

Doyle refocused so quickly Sullivan flinched at the look in his eyes. "What, drown my sorrows? There's been enough melodrama for one evening. You drink it. And book yourself a holiday. I'll be in at eight tomorrow morning. Don't forget to send me a postcard." He had left the pub before Sullivan thought to react.

oOo

Returning after a month's break Sullivan found the order books full, his desk clear and no problems awaiting him, only an unsmiling Ray Doyle who announced his intention of having a break himself.

Sullivan didn't see him for more than nine weeks, learning by chance that Doyle was in Europe. From the rumours that trickled back via various sources, if there was an excess Doyle failed to sample it was only because he didn't have the time or stamina. His attention over Christmas divided between his family and worrying about Doyle, Sullivan knew there was little he could do but wait.

In the middle of January he went to pick up his car, that he had left with Terry to be serviced. Finding four legs protruding from under a Land Rover he kicked gently at those with the largest feet, unsurprised when Doyle wriggled out into view.

"And where the bloody hell have you been?" he asked mildly.

"Hello, Tony. Holiday," explained Doyle going on the defensive.

"You look as if you could use one, I agree," said Sullivan, noting and disapproving of all the small changes he saw in the younger man. "Finished tearing up Europe, have you?"

Recognising he wasn't going to be able to slide out of the forthcoming lecture Doyle sighed and got to his feet. "Made a prat of myself, didn't I?" Sullivan nodded. "Are you still pissed off with me for going away?"

Grimy and oil-streaked, wearing narrow-legged jeans and an over-large rugby shirt Doyle was uncomfortably reminiscent of Matthew; his face out of the light now, he looked little older.

"Yes," admitted Sullivan gruffly, giving the curly head the same caress/clip round the ear he would have given one of his sons. "I worried about you for chrissake."

"Why?" asked Doyle, blank surprise on his face.

"Only you could ask that. Who else could see to the company books the way you do," returned Sullivan. "Evening, Terry. My car get through the MOT?"

"After some work on it," said Terry, producing a grubby piece of paper from his top pocket. "Certificate's in the dashboard. There's a note of what I 'ad to do. You'll need to keep an eye on the oil. You'll be off then," he added pointedly before Sullivan could reply.

"He will," said Doyle, knowing Terry was happiest working in silence, a state unknown to Tony Sullivan. "Is it okay with you if I knock off now?"

"We'd about finished," Terry agreed. "I could use some help tomorrow. You're handy around the place."

From Terry that was high praise indeed. "I'll be in," Doyle promised him, steering Sullivan in the direction of his car.

Terry disappeared back under the Land Rover with a grunt of acknowledgement.

"Nice to know some things don't change, isn't it?" said Sullivan _sotto voce_ before he glanced at the bill and winced.

"Terry's okay. Bit chatty, mind. Can I have a lift home now we've got this crock of yours roadworthy?"

"If you sit on this," said Sullivan, handing him a copy of the Evening Standard, ignoring with ease the insult to his car.

"Afraid I won't be able to see out the window?" asked Doyle with a quizzical look but he spread the paper over the passenger seat before getting in. Relaxing back in the seat, little was required of him but to listen to the easy stream of the older man's conversation. "This isn't the way home," he remarked after a short while.

"True. I want to collect something from the office. I won't be a minute. Will you be all - ?" Realising what he was saying, and to whom, Sullivan grimaced. "Forget I asked. Gwyneth's kids have mumps so the boys have been with me full time. I'm turning into an old woman."

"What d'you mean, turning," scoffed Doyle with an affectionate grin before his expression sobered. "Tony, I'm all right. We're good friends but..."

"I know," Sullivan surrendered. "Mind my own business."

"You can't worry about the world, mate."

"I can worry about a friend if I want to," retorted Sullivan, the slamming of his door effectively cutting off Doyle's reply.

Returning within five minutes he tossed a foolscap envelope into Doyle's lap. "Happy Christmas."

"Eh?"

"The season to be jolly. I had it ready for you for Christmas, it's not my fault you were tearing up Europe. Aren't you going to open it?" added Sullivan, an expectant look on his face.

Taken aback, Doyle stared at the envelope. "You're firing me, is that it." Despite himself the flippant comment had the sound of a question.

"Close. Will you open the bloody thing?"

His eyes on the other man Doyle ripped the envelope open and began to read the first page of the documents it revealed before he stared in speechless silence at the papers that gifted him a full partnership in the agency. 

 

By mutual consent the velvet job was never spoken of again. Leaving his former trade behind, with the exception of one client, Doyle took over more of the work involved in running the agency. His attention divided between his chosen sports, shooting, working in the garage and keeping Tony Sullivan solvent, he also managed to make rather a lot of money for himself.

Inevitably his life changed and the memory of the velvet job faded; no longer needing such a clear demarcation line between his working and personal life, Doyle's speech unconsciously smoothed out. With great glee Sullivan added a financial troubleshooter to the agency's books as Doyle found himself in increasing demand, never quite appreciating that the world of finance was not an open book everyone could dip into at will.

 

"I'm almost afraid to interrupt," said Doyle, having waited in vain to be noticed for almost five minutes. "You're in danger of looking quite intelligent."

Having jumped visibly upon finding Doyle standing across from his desk Sullivan stuck two fingers up at him in an amiable fashion. "I was thinking," he said with dignity.

"Everyone should have a hobby," Doyle agreed. "There's nothing wrong with the kids is there?"

"What? No, nothing like that, thank god. Marie's leaving to set up her own hair salon and as you know Justin's off to the States at the end of the month."

"I should do, every time I see him he gives me his life history," said Doyle with a grimace, never having had much patience with Justin's love of self-dramatisation. "So?"

"So I've been thinking," said Sullivan with a trace of unease.

Lounging back in his chair Doyle viewed him with amused affection. "About closing the portfolio down, I presume."

"How did you - ? You're too clever by half, that's your trouble," grumbled Sullivan half-heartedly.

"So I've been told. You haven't suggested replacing anyone when they decided to move on. That side of the business has been virtually non-existent for almost a year now. It's worked out well," Doyle mused, "because you can close things down without upsetting anyone."

"You don't mind?"

"Why should I?"

"Half the profits are yours."

"We're not exactly starving, the agency has more legitimate business than it can handle as it is. It'll certainly make the books easier to keep, not to mention that bloody conscience of yours."

"I'd like to remind you who started the business," said Sullivan, refuting the claim with some heat.

"Don't try to con a con man, Tony. Times have changed. We can't get reliable staff, or guarantee some of the would-be clients. I'm glad to be out of it."

"Except for Juliet Richardson."

"She's different," dismissed Doyle, giving a lazy stretch.

"You don't need to tell me that. The last time she paid a fee must have been back in 1980," retorted Sullivan with asperity.

"You sound like a bloody accountant," said Doyle without heat, accustomed to the other man's needling tactics by this time.

"Why make an exception for her? So I'm nosy," Sullivan added.

"Get away," Doyle breathed. "Because I like her. And because her old man's living in the past when it comes to female emancipation. She gets an allowance. Can you believe it, he gives her an allowance. Thirty pounds a month doesn't go far, particularly not at the fees we charge."

Sullivan's jaw dropped. "You're joking."

"I wish I was. She has accounts everywhere, of course, and enough plastic to cover a wall. I know the agency takes Access and Visa but what's she supposed to put me down under?"

"I could think of a few things. You aren't a charitable institution. Toy boys are supposed to be the spongers, not the client."

"She stopped being that years ago."

Aghast, Sullivan stared at him. "You're never in love with her?"

"Don't start," Doyle begged him. "Of course I'm not. But I think a lot of her. She makes me laugh too. Besides, three or four times a year... It isn't much to ask and god knows she needs a break occasionally."

"You're getting soft in your old age."

"You reckon? So what's that I saw in the diary about Marie seeing Garrett again? Have we started offering it on hire purchase? He hasn't got a penny and while Marie's a sweetheart she doesn't give away the time of day."

"He's a special case. Just so long as she gets paid Marie doesn't care where it comes from. All right," Sullivan added testily as Doyle gave a hoot of derision, "you got me. Why I ever imagined it would be a good idea to bring you in as a partner I'll never know. What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were due down at Bisley for that competition?"

"Nutfield had to scratch so I thought I'd pop in to make your life a misery."

"Congratulations, you've succeeded. How would you like to babysit tonight?" Sullivan added with would-be casualness.

"I wouldn't."

Sullivan grimaced. "You got something planned?"

"Dinner, theatre and home to bed. I can cancel it. James will understand."

"James?"

"Oh my gawd. No, Dad, his intentions aren't honourable. Nor are mine. Christ, the sooner Matthew starts his sex life the quicker you'll lay off mine," sighed Doyle.

"He's only twelve," spluttered Sullivan.

"So? How old were you when you developed an interest?" returned Doyle.

"Oh god," groaned Sullivan in heartfelt tones.

"Relax, mate. You'll cope. What time do you want me to come round? Or would you rather the kids came to stay with me for the night, save cramping your style?"

Sullivan gave him a look of gratitude, then paused. "But what about James?"

"He'll keep," said Doyle with a shrug.

"And if he doesn't? Ray, isn't it about time you settled down?"

"I'll pick the kids up at six," said Doyle unsmiling and left before Sullivan could put his foot in it again.


	2. Chapter 2

JUNE 1988 - FEBRUARY 1989

 

"Good morning, Bodie. I see you're on time for once," said Cowley with suspect affability. "What do you know about Juliet Richardson?"

More concerned with his hangover than the question Bodie said promptly, "If she claims I'm the father she's lying." His witticism being met with a stony silence he tried again. "She's somebody?"

"A startling piece of deduction. She is the wife of Sir Nigel Richardson."

Bodie gave him a blank look but persevered in the face of Cowley's glare. "The whiz kid?" he hazarded.

"Some people might consider fifty-three a little mature for the term but that was certainly the title the press gave him twenty-five years ago."

"Why are we interested in his old lady?" asked Bodie, with little real interest in anything but a bottle of aspirin and a pot of coffee.

"Because these gentlemen and that lady were spotted following her yesterday."

Four glossy 10" x 8" black and white photographs landed on Bodie's side of the desk. He whistled as he recognised the faces staring up at him.

"What did we do to deserve the May Day Quartet on our backs? And what do they want her for? Possible kidnapping? Her old man could afford the ransom if the papers are to be believed but why her? There are plenty of multi-millionaires' wives to choose from. Have we got a photo of her?" Bodie added.

Another photograph was tossed over to him and Bodie gave it a cursory glance. "She's not bad-looking for her age."

"I'm sure she'd be gratified by your approval. There aren't many multi-millionaires' wives who are as accessible as Lady Richardson - when not attending public functions she rarely makes use of the chauffeur - or whose husbands have such sensitive government contracts."

"Heat-seeking device of some kind, isn't it?" said Bodie vaguely, far from at his best this morning.

"Close. Do I need to remind you that agents on standby are expected to remain sober?"

"No, sir." Recognising all the signs, Bodie straightened. "Sorry, sir."

"I've no doubt you are. Sit down and see if some of this coffee will help. I want three teams on the surveillance detail. You'll head the operation. I want the Quartet - alive."

"Yes, sir," said Bodie woodenly, aware that the likelihood of capturing the May Day Quartet without a considerable amount of bloodshed was negligible.

"Alive, 3.7."

He gave a gloomy nod and poured himself a second cup of coffee. "Are the Richardsons cooperating with us on this, sir?" he asked with little expectation.

Cowley's look spoke volumes. "We've had approval for a wire-tap of their two homes, effective from midday today. Here's Lady Richardson's itinerary for the next week as far as we have been able to ascertain it. Don't lose her."

"Who'll be working with me on this?"

"You'll want the pick of the bunch, I suppose?"

"Government contracts and a high-profile millionaire," Bodie reminded him. "Against those fanatics I'd like the Seventh Cavalry but I'll settle for Anson, Trevors, McNally, Jax, Lucas and McCabe. I could use more. This is one busy lady," he noted, having studied the itinerary he had been given. "Hasn't she heard of the idle rich?"

"Quite. You can have those six, with back-up standing by. Your primary task is to keep Juliet Richardson alive."

"Piece of cake," said Bodie dryly.

"I'm glad you think so. No doubt you'll start work in your own good time."

 

"Ray, I was hoping you'd call in. Juliet Richardson rang early this morning. She wondered if you'd be free tomorrow afternoon."

"For Juliet I'll cancel a couple of things."

"That's what I thought so I confirmed it for you. You think a lot of her, don't you?"

"With good cause. She's a gutsy lady."

"In what way?" asked Sullivan, never having understood Doyle's affection for this one client.

"She's fifty-two, been married for thirty-three years to a bloke who can barely remember her name. But she loves him so she hangs on in there in the hope that his affairs and his work will slacken off. She's got five kids who take her for granted - reading between the lines they're selfish little shits - while she works an average eighteen-hour day. She does more work for charity than I can remember and finds time to act the dutiful appendage and keep the family together."

"So?" asked Sullivan, staring at him in puzzlement.

"So you need to meet her to know why she's special. Sometimes the effort of being Lady Richardson, tireless worker for charity, chairperson of umpteen committees and housekeeper, gets on top of her and she wants to be reminded she's an attractive, desirable woman with a mind of her own."

"You know a lot about her," said Sullivan, a little disconcerted.

"I listen," said Doyle simply. "In her case as much to what she doesn't say - she isn't a whiner and she won't hear a word against her family. I only heard her complain once - her silver wedding anniversary - although only she had remembered that. She broke down and told me why she wouldn't be calling me again, she couldn't afford the fees."

"So for eight years you've been giving it away. Don't panic, I'm not about to give you another lecture."

"That'll make a change."

"She was one of your first clients, wasn't she?"

"I suppose she was," conceded Doyle. "I was seventeen and I'm coming up to... Strewth. Where does she want us to meet, did she say?"

"She wondered if we could supply a driver for her free afternoon tomorrow." Sullivan eyed the exuberance of Doyle's hair. "You'll never get a cap on top of that lot."

Doyle raised two fingers at him. "Where are we going?"

"The King's Head, Winchester. I booked a suite for you."

"You're a hero. Where am I picking her up from?"

"The outskirts of Basingstoke. I've got the address here."

"Basingstoke," groaned Doyle. "Bloody hell. Last time it was Cleethorpes. I suppose her old man's visiting another factory. Dunno why he can't pick more exotic locations. Still..."

"You're happy to play Romeo to her Juliet," completed Sullivan, comparing the elegant man opposite to him to the scruffy street urchin he had first interviewed.

"Spare me," winced Doyle. "She doesn't fool herself - or not often. Everyone's entitled to the odd fantasy. She doesn't take adultery lightly either, which shows you how desperate she gets."

"And what do you get? Apart from a sense of doing a good deed," said Sullivan dryly, not believing in the saintly Juliet Richardson.

Doyle's mouth twitched.

"What's that for?"

"I was just thinking about what else I get."

Sullivan frowned before his expression cleared. "She's that good in the sack?"

"That's a very coarse way of putting it," Doyle reproved him before he gave a spreading grin, "but essentially correct."

"I should have guessed. Well try and save some of your energy for this weekend."

"Why?" asked Doyle with suspicion.

"I thought you might like to have the kids to stay - Friday to Monday."

"Oh did you? All right, I suppose so - if Gareth leaves that bloody ghetto blaster of his at home. You off with Isobel again?"

Sullivan gave a non-committal grunt.

"I like her," Doyle added. "So do the boys. You ever thought about regularising the position?"

"That's none of your damn... I've thought about it," admitted Sullivan with a sigh. "She won't have me."

"Why not? You aren't that bad and you're wearing well for an old 'un."

That abrasive support all he needed Sullivan smiled. "Thank you and good night. I'll try again. She's got this bias against marriage."

"I'll start saving up for a morning suit."

"You mean you can't afford to buy out Moss Bros yet?" mocked Sullivan.

"Wouldn't want 'em. Anyway I've got enough for my needs."

Smiling, Sullivan shook his head, knowing Doyle meant it. "Definitely an original," he murmured. "Speaking of figures, did you sort out the quarterly accounts with Malcolm?"

"Eventually," conceded Doyle with a look of pain. "We could do better than Malcolm you know. He drives me barmy."

"No?" marvelled Sullivan, knowing Doyle's impatience with anyone slower-witted than himself.

"Sympathy I might expect. Even you can't need me to tell you business is booming."

"It's the damn yuppies. A dripping washer and you'd think Noah had just finished building the ark. Problem is finding the staff to match the demand. Can't get a decent plumber for love or money. I've been wondering if we shouldn't take on some kids as apprentices and train them up ourselves."

"Come on," said Doyle with resignation as he leant back against the table, his legs stretched out in front of him, "I recognise that crusading look. How much is this little scheme going to cost us?"

"Not much. George and Leroy were both asking about the possibility. They've got kids of sixteen about to leave school and no prospect of jobs for them. They aren't the only ones either. What do you think?"

"That we aren't a charitable institution," replied Doyle promptly before he relented. "Why not? Mickey might be willing to help out, and Tim. And if I offered to lend a hand Terry might be willing to take a kid on. Mind, he'll have to be the quiet type. Leave it with me, I'll see what I can organise."

"What's wrong?" asked Sullivan shrewdly.

"Nothing." Doyle was prowling around the room as he spoke, as if unable to contain his pent-up energy. Sensing himself to be under surveillance he paused and gave a wry shrug.

"It's springtime. Everyone gets restless in the spring."

"It's the seventh of June, Ray, hardly springtime. You're bored, I recognise all the signs. What you need," continued Sullivan instructively, "is a challenge. Something to stretch you. Maybe it's time to stop piddling around and go into business for yourself instead of other people."

"You must be joking. I won't deny I've made a bob or two but... It's a game, win or lose. Jam on the bread, that's all," said Doyle, running a hand back through his hair. "You're right, I am bored. Thought I might learn to fly."

"Fly," mused Sullivan. "We could do with a light aircraft pilot on our books."

"Prat," said Doyle amiably. "I got my licence three years ago. No, helicopters is what I had in mind."

"Oh, my god. Don't tell me any more. At least it's an improvement on gliding. What happens when you run out of sports to sample?"

Doyle waved that irrelevance aside. "I'll be all right. Christ, I should be, I've got it all, haven't I?"

Eyeing his friend Sullivan remained silent, aware that one thing Doyle had always lacked was a stable relationship. He knew better than to mention the fact.

"Almost," he agreed, his tone non-committal. "Shame about the face, of course. How's your house-hunting going?"

"You're behind. I moved yesterday. Place is a tip but I'll soon get it into shape."

"Do you need any agency help?"

"No. The electrics are sound and the plumbing's okay. It's all surface stuff that I can handle. What have you been doing with yourself? Maggie said you're up to your eyes in work."

"For a while. We're coordinating Glencairn's Midsummer Night's Masque," said Sullivan without expression.

"Glencairn?" Cold eyes raked Sullivan. "Have you gone mad? We don't do work for that bastard."

"Maggie accepted the booking while I was out. It's a charity do and I'm charging Glencairn treble rate. I've also made it clear this is the first and last time he uses Housecalls. You haven't forgotten, then."

"Oh, no," said Doyle, his voice soft. "I might even join the staff that night. Never know what I might pick up."

"Forget it. You meet up with Glencairn and I know exactly what will happen."

"I've already met him," announced Doyle, his expression arctic.

"When?"

"A couple of months ago when I was trying to sort out Mather's finances. One of the members of the consortium turned out to be Glencairn."

"You didn't tell me."

"There isn't much to tell except... Do you remember we couldn't prove those three blokes who beat me up worked for him? Well I've got the proof."

"Concrete?"

"I wish it was. No, Mr Glencairn simply congratulated me on my grasp of financial matters and trusted I found my new employment more congenial than my last. I've never met him before in my life."

Sullivan closed his eyes. "When does he come out of hospital?"

"Tony, Tony, you know me better than that," chided Doyle but there was no warmth to him.

"I do. What happened?"

"I shafted him on the deal, which made his smile slip a little, and hired that firm of private detectives you used in the past."

"For Glencairn?" said Sullivan with horror. "Have you gone mad?"

"Relax. They know to be careful and they're good at their job. I'm in no hurry."

"Oh christ. If Glencairn finds out you're dead meat."

"He's got to find out first," said Doyle, relaxing a little.

"He will."

"Maybe, maybe not. I wasn't born yesterday. I handled everything through my solicitors."

Knowing the venerable firm blessed with Doyle's patronage Sullivan gave an unwilling smile. "That commission must have made Keeble sit up."

"As a matter of fact he took the news quite calmly, considering. I think he's getting used to me. But this matter is being handled by one of his assistants. One who moves with the times," Doyle added in the manner of one quoting.

"Is he any good?"

"What at?" asked Doyle, a wicked glint in his eyes.

Sullivan gave him a look of mistrust. "You aren't - That is, he isn't - ?"

"I am and she's bloody good, at her job."

"Turned you down, did she?" said Sullivan unsympathetically.

"I'm working on her. I'm seeing her Wednesday night as a matter of fact."

"I won't hold my breath, you said she's a bright lady. Look, Ray, I know you always think I worry too much but are you sure she can be trusted to handle the matter for you? While Keeble's a sea-green incorruptible you can't guarantee that he vets his staff as thoroughly as we vet ours."

"Fiona's the youngest daughter of the Attorney General. I know that's no guarantee of anything but she's not short of a bob or two in her own right."

"I should have known," sighed Sullivan. "But this surveillance of yours... Don't go getting your hopes up. They won't catch Glencairn, even if he should be behind bars."

"Or six feet under," said Doyle with soft-voiced venom. "Apparently he still likes home-made movies."

Seriously concerned, Sullivan leant forward. "That was a long time ago, Ray."

"Not," said Doyle, "long enough."

"You survived."

"True. Rumour has it not everyone else is so lucky."

"If you're hoping to bring Glencairn down for good, think again. It's bad enough that you got the better of him in a business deal. He won't forget that."

"I hope he won't because I'm planning to do it again, every chance I get in fact. It won't be more than a minor irritation, I can't match his resources, but it might sting him into doing something rash."

"Like putting a bullet in you. For god's sake, Ray!"

"Stop worrying, I'm quite capable of defending myself from - "

"I don't give a monkey's how many cups you've won for shooting - or that you can wipe me round the gym floor. Glencairn employs experts. Christ, Ray, the best in the land have been trying to nobble him for years on everything from drugs to video nasties to protection rackets to tax-evasion. They've never come close."

"Yet. Who's 'they'?"

"Everyone from the Inland Revenue through Customs and Excise to CI5."

"CI5? You know much about them?" asked Doyle with little real interest.

"What I read in the papers. And... I ran across their boss when I was in the SAS. He's a clever bastard. Straight as a die but ruthless."

"You have some heavy friends. Maybe I should start treating you with a bit more respect."

"Why break the habit of a lifetime? Look, Ray, about Glencairn - "

"I'll be careful. And I won't implicate Housecalls."

"You think I give a bugger about - ? Oh, get out of here. Be careful."

"I always am," said Doyle with a cheerful confidence. "While I think of it, I've got a squash court booked for tomorrow evening - nine o'clock. I should be back from Winchester long before then. D'you fancy a game? It'll do your waistline good."

All too aware of the truth of that, Sullivan gave him a look of dislike and agreed.

 

"What do you mean, you lost them?" demanded Bodie over the RT.

"I mean they got through the lights and we didn't. Got stuck behind some old biddy in a Fiat." Even the metallic quality of the RT wasn't enough to disguise Anson's irritation. "By the time the lights had changed back the van was nowhere in sight. It's a rabbit warren of side roads off into new housing estates. Up and coming area, this is."

"You should work for an estate agent's," remarked Bodie sourly. "That's all we needed, four nutters freewheeling it around the outskirts of Basingstoke ready, willing and eager for trouble. Everything okay back at the Corral?" he added, referring to the factory Sir Nigel Richardson was visiting.

"Fine. Jax and McNally are on the alert."

"I'm glad someone is. You told Cowley the good news?"

"Got Trevors to do it," Anson admitted. "Cowley wasn't pleased. In fact he and some back-up are on their way by chopper. Local coppers are on the alert for our friends and the van. Do you want us to keep looking ourselves or come back to base for blanket coverage of the lady?"

"Come back," said Bodie without hesitation. "How far out are you?"

"About eight miles from you."

"Okay, I'll let you know if and when she sets off. Lucas and McCabe are keeping an eye on the house, they'll be right behind her. I don't like this. Cowley should have told the Richardsons."

"Why don't you mention it to him," suggested Anson. "I've done my bit for the day. See you."

Bodie gave a faint grin as Anson cut communication without ceremony. It didn't surprise him that Anson had lost the Bedford van thought to be carrying the May Day Quartet. They hadn't even had a positive ID on them, only a possible sighting; given the heavy mid-morning traffic and the necessity of remaining inconspicuous it said a lot for Anson's skill that he had stayed with them as long as he had. While Bodie saw nothing sinister in the van taking a red light - it happened every day - it could be an indication of a PLO-trained terrorist taking routine precautions against a tail. He would have given a lot to know where Lady Richardson was planning to go this afternoon so they could set up a decent cover. All they knew was that she had the afternoon free of official functions.

Maybe she'll have a nap, he thought hopefully, aware that the defensive capabilities of the house the Richardsons were occupying were a damn sight better than the open road or a high street of shops.

 

"I hate obbo jobs," remarked McCabe morosely for the third time that hour.

Accustomed to his partner's complaints during spells of inactivity Lucas didn't dignify the statement with a reply, his attention on the wine-coloured Rolls Royce drawing to a smooth halt outside the Richardsons' temporary residence.

"This could be for her."

"Not only could be, is. She's a bit eager to be off, isn't she?" remarked McCabe as Juliet Richardson ran lightly down the steps before the ignition had been switched off. She offered a smile to the chauffeur, who hastened to leave his seat and was grinning broadly himself.

"Maybe she doesn't like to keep people waiting," remarked Lucas, who sometimes felt he spent half his life hanging around for his partner.

"Up yours," said McCabe amiably, waiting until the Rolls Royce was a safe distance past them before getting the car underway and relaying the information to Bodie via the RT. "Wonder where we're going," he said as they negotiated the third roundabout in a mile, privately wondering if they were going round in a circle.

"Southampton?" offered Lucas, squinting at the signposts as they came to yet another roundabout.

"No one in their right minds would want to go there. Could be making for Winchester for a spot of sight-seeing. Hang on, what's the bugger playing at?" complained McCabe, circling the roundabout to the annoyance of the driver of the lorry sitting on his bumper.

"Probably got lost. Yeah, look, he's heading back for the Southampton road. Must've missed his turning."

"He could be trying to lose a tail too," pointed out McCabe.

"Gosh, I wish I'd thought of that. Okay, I'll swallow it if you can explain why Lady Richardson should imagine she's being followed?"

"I was thinking of the chauffeur." Knowing he had scored McCabe gave a self-satisfied smirk.

"We'll see," said Lucas non-committally. "It's either Winchester or Southampton. Wonder why they're not using the motorway, it's only on the other side of that barrier."

"Look at the traffic on it. We're going a good ten miles faster and there isn't another car in sight - except for the Roller. This A-road parallels the motorway most of the way. Less traffic and less chance of being nicked for speeding on this one. Which would you rather use? Speaking of speeding, they're going it some aren't they?"

"We're doing eighty-nine and barely keeping up with them."

"Then put your foot down. We can't afford to lose them and now that strip of grass is turning into a wooded area I don't want any unhappy surprises. That could be another reason for choosing the A-road."

"Unhappy surprises about sums it up if a sniper hits a tyre while we're travelling at this speed," said McCabe as he accelerated. "It's spooky being on a road this quiet, there's nothing else ahead of us and nothing in the mirror. It's like the Marie Celeste."

"I can't see the connection myself - and don't bother explaining it. Close up," commanded Lucas, a slight frown creasing his forehead.

"Trouble?" asked McCabe, sensing rather than seeing it. 

"You'd think the Richardsons could afford the best of everything, wouldn't you?"

"They seem to. I wouldn't mind a Roller."

"Not the car, the driver. How come the chauffeur looked so scruffy? The uniform was three sizes too big for him and he could barely keep the cap on. Most chauffeurs you see are formal and ultra-smart."

"He didn't look Italian or Middle Eastern."

"Doesn't have to, does he? Maybe the Quartet have contracted some local talent to help them out."

"Not their style. He could be affiliated though. Irish?"

"Call in," said Lucas with decision. "Who's the car registered to?"

"Housecalls, a London-based agency. The Richardsons use it all the time, including when their own chauffeur's off on his holidays - like now."

"Is the agency kosher?"

"Judging by its list of regular clients, very. Prime Minister's used 'em twice herself."

Lucas grunted. "What about the driver?"

"He'll be employed by Housecalls."

"So?"

"So they have a good reputation. Discreet staff. No selling titbits to the tabloids."

"Doesn't exclude one of those discreet employees from dabbling in terrorism, does it?" retorted Lucas.

"Blimey, you're cheerful today. Okay, I'll get back to Control about the chauffeur. Be difficult to get a positive ID on him without alerting the agency though."

"Tell Control to get inventive."

"Cheers," sighed McCabe as he complied. Glancing at his partner before his attention returned to the road, he said, "I've just had another thought. You don't suppose Lady Richardson is in on it do you? Remember that smile she gave the chauffeur?"

"I'll have a word with Bodie," said Lucas. "Make sure Sir Nigel doesn't get forgotten in the worry about his missis."

Having shared the cheerful possibility that Lady Richardson could be in cahoots with a possible affiliate of the May Day Quartet the two men settled back to enjoy what was left of the drive, aware there was little more they could do for now and that Bodie and Anson in separate cars were both on their way.

"I've never been to Winchester," remarked Lucas, watching the Rolls Royce enter a multi-storey car park on the outskirts of the city.

"Wishing you'd brought your camera?"

"And an Ingram. I used to be a boy scout so I never got out of the habit of being prepared. I'd feel happier if Control got an ID on the chauffeur."

"So would I but without broadcasting CI5's interest it couldn't be done. Housecalls is too discreet. Hope the section he picks to park in has a spare space for us," McCabe added. "Car park's packed. Funny, you'd think he would have dropped her off outside, wouldn't you?"

"Don't ask me, mate. I'm not very well up on the correct way to behave with servants. He's stopping."

"And so can we, over there if you hurry. What the hell's going on in there?"

"Can't see because of the smoked glass but... It's all right, he's changing."

"I can see that much," agreed McCabe acidly. "Question is, why?"

The chauffeur, after a considerable amount of wriggling in the front seat, emerged in a pair of faded denims and a tee shirt, his uncapped head a riot of brown curls.

Watching as he sauntered over to pay for a parking ticket, retrieving change from his back pocket only with difficulty, Lucas shook his head.

"One thing's for certain, whatever's going on he's not holding her by force."

"Look at that," said McCabe, nudging his partner.

Juliet Richardson emerged from the rear seat of the car, her somewhat frumpish navy and white spotted dress and pearls replaced by white trousers and a vivid blue shirt; her face concealed by sunglasses and the floppy-brimmed straw hat, she had a canvas bag slung over one shoulder.

"Nice arse," decided Lucas, who considered himself a connoisseur.

"Down boy, you can't afford her. What have we got here d'you reckon?"

'Lady R off for a bit of illicit nookie gets my vote."

"Maybe," said McCabe dubiously, eyeing the couple who were deep in conversation as they strolled over to the lifts; the man's chuckle reached to where they stood, ostensibly searching for change.

"I'd be happier if we knew something about him. That's a good-looking bloke."

"Not my type, duckie."

"Quiet, you. As I was saying, that's a good-looking bloke."

"She's not exactly repulsive."

"Granted, but she wouldn't set the world on fire either. She's also old enough to be his mum."

"Maybe he likes older women."

"And maybe he doesn't. He wouldn't have any trouble pulling crumpet with those looks. Given the chance which would you go for, youth or experience? I reckon he's selling it."

Lucas considered the idea as they strolled out into the sunshine, their quarry twenty yards down the road in front of them, heading towards the town gates.

"Fancy getting paid for it," he said wistfully. "Poor old Sir Nigel."

"He's got his money to keep him warm, plus some illicit crumpet of his own if the gossip columns are to be believed. He's off to the States later this afternoon, isn't he?"

"Five o'clock flight. So?"

"So why didn't she wait till he was gone? Hey, where are they?"

"Relax. They're buying ice-cream."

"Trouble is they look like every other bloody tourist now they've changed. Still, it could be worse, it could be raining. I hope they decide to stop for lunch, I'm starving."

"You always are," said Lucas with resignation. "Want an ice-cream?"

With a long-suffering sigh McCabe shook his head.

The two agents soon realised that for all their seeming aimlessness the couple in front of them were moving with a definite objective in mind. Leaving the shopping precinct they headed down a sharply sloping side road; neither man felt surprised when the couple entered a small hotel, the chauffeur pausing to pick up a key.

Finding an inconspicuous corner of the reception area in which to call in from Lucas turned to his partner with a look of disgust.

"Bodie's had a call from Cowley. Local police had a positive sighting of the Quartet, or half of it, in the High Street. Bodie's just parking the car, he'll be with us in five minutes. Anson's broken down eight miles out."

"Wonderful. Typical bloody Anson, that is."

"It gets better. Cowley's orders are to secure the hotel but maintain a low-level profile."

"With only four of us the last part's easy. He wouldn't like us to walk on water while we're at it would he? We need back-up."

"It's on its way."

"Story of my life. According to the register the chauffeur's name is Doyle, Ray Doyle of Chelsea, occupation businessman."

"That covers a multitude of sins. We'll need access to the rooms adjoining his."

"Already taken care of. I've asked for a plan of this place too. The manager's freaking out but the staff are locking as many doors and windows around the ground floor as they can. The plan's coming."

"I'll check the outside while we wait."

 

"The likelihood of us being able to defend this place against boy scouts, never mind the Quartet, is about as likely as Cowley declaring himself teetotal," said Bodie with disgust, having been brought up to date by Lucas and McCabe and made his own observations in the ten minutes since he had arrived. "Are you sure there's nothing on the other side of Doyle's room?"

"Only their bathroom - window onto the outside wall."

"Access from the roof?"

"Dodgy but possible," said Lucas, having checked.

"That's what I thought. We'll take her out now," said Bodie.

"Cowley won't like it," McCabe warned him.

"He'll like it even less if the Quartet take her. We've got passkeys for this adjoining door and the main door into the hallway?"

McCabe held them out.

"Okay, you two take the hall, I'll go in from here. Get her down the servants' stairs to the car. Head for Winchester School, the chopper will be landing on the playing field by the river in about ten minutes."

"It's Winchester College, you peasant. Do they know?" added Lucas.

"I didn't chance my luck by asking. It's the nearest open space. Let's just hope someone's little Alastair doesn't get a bullet up the bum. We'll never hear the end of it."

"What about Doyle?" asked Lucas.

"I'll stay here with him till the back-up arrives. Okay, every one ready?"

"Hold up," said Lucas. "We can't just break in. They'll be well away by now."

Bodie gave him a look of disbelief, then shook his head. "I wonder about you sometimes. No one's ever died of lover's nuts. We go in in sixty seconds - 2.49, okay?"

"Just so long as you do all the explaining. She's bound to scream," said McCabe with resignation.

"Get out of here," said Bodie with a grin.

Hearing them leave he gently inserted the passkey. Holding his breath he found the key turning with an oiled ease. Hoping the door would open as silently, his Browning in his hand, Bodie checked his watch.

Three, two, one.

Crouched in the doorway he found himself staring into the blind, slitted eyes of the man obviously in the throes of climax. His head thrown back, the muscles of his neck corded, his lips were parted in a silent cry. Sensual and mesmerising, it was a familiar face, if one Bodie had seen only once, almost six years before. Once seen, never forgotten.

Frozen with stupefaction Bodie lost precious seconds, unaware of Lucas and McCabe's voices or the sound of the bathroom door being wrenched open, dark-clad figures crouching in the doorway.

 

Having moved into the hallway to allow the Forensics teams more space Cowley heard McCabe's report in an arctic silence.

"Is the doctor with Doyle now?" he asked as last.

"Yes, sir," confirmed McCabe woodenly, his lip painful and swelling rapidly.

"You say that having jumped Lucas Doyle was reaching for Lucas's gun when you knocked him out?"

"That's what happened, sir," snapped McCabe, still jumpy and tense thirty-five minutes after the event.

"Indeed? It's one interpretation certainly. Mr Doyle offered another in the brief word I had with him. Why do you suppose he would take the risk of attacking an armed man?"

"Because he's linked to the Quartet."

"Possible if not very probable. It could simply be due to the fact that even when the crisis was over and the Quartet was dead no one thought to announce CI5's presence to Mr Doyle or Lady Richardson. According to Mr. Doyle, all he knew was that the room was full of armed men - "

"Maria Donati's - "

" - armed men," continued Cowley icily, "who burst in and opened fire. When the firing stopped only two men were on their feet. When one - Lucas, I presume? - vaulted over the bed to where Mr Doyle lay protecting Lady Richardson as best he could Doyle saw only the automatic. Not unnaturally, he presumed he and Lady Richardson were about to be killed." He paused. "Would you say that was a fair interpretation in the circumstances?"

Opening his mouth to protest McCabe thought the better of it.

"Very wise," remarked Cowley crisply. "I give you a simple job to do and what do I have, a shambles! Four dead terrorists, Bodie freezing and getting himself shot and Lucas being beaten up by a civilian. To top it all Lady Richardson is suffering from severe shock and a broken collar-bone sustained in her fall from the bed."

"That was Doyle's fault," said McCabe heatedly, then winced. "The plans didn't show the loft hatch in the bathroom. I should have thought of that. Sorry, sir."

"Aye. A place this old is riddled with bolt holes. Anson and Trevors will remain here to tidy up now they've finally arrived. I want you and Lucas back in London and your written reports on my desk by eight p.m."

"What about Doyle?" asked McCabe, having taken a strong dislike to the man who had laid out his partner.

"If the doctor gives the go-ahead Mr Doyle will accompany me to London where he will be held pending further inquiries. Did anything strike you as significant in his behaviour?"

Aware of the slight thaw in Cowley's manner McCabe relaxed a little. "Probably the same things that have struck you, sir. He's too cool. Seven armed men burst in, there's a massacre, he comes that close to getting his own head blown off approximately two minutes after he's had it away - " Warned by Cowley's look of disapproval McCabe changed tack. "He was coordinated enough to take out Lucas - which isn't easy at any time, never mind at that stage of an operation. I nearly shot Doyle then," he added with the honesty Cowley expected of his agents.

The Scot merely nodded. "While it was a fiasco I am aware it could have been worse."

"Doyle's been trained in unarmed combat, sir."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. In different circumstances I'm not sure if I could take him. He's a pro."

"So?" mused Cowley. "We'll find out more. A great deal more. But it doesn't add up. He was clearly protecting Lady Richardson you say?"

McCabe gave a reluctant nod. "I can't suss him out at all."

"We will. How did he react to the deaths of the Quartet?"

"It was all so fast I didn't have time to register it myself until it was all over. You know how it is," McCabe added, knowing Cowley did. That was why, for all his faults, they trusted him. "By the time I'd got Doyle down we landed next to Paulo. Doyle went a bit green and lost concentration - that's when I laid him out. Can't say I enjoyed the sight myself and I'm more used to it. That's where most of the blood on us came from," he added. "Where's Lucas, sir?"

"Downstairs, he's started to take statements from the hotel staff. He'll sport some fine bruises but is otherwise unharmed. Ah, doctor. How is Mr Doyle?"

"He'll live," said the police doctor cheerfully. "He may not enjoy it much for the next couple of days but it's no more than bruises."

"He's fit for questioning, then?"

"Lord, yes. No signs of shock. This was quite a to-do, what?"

"Thank you for your assistance, doctor. If you will go with McCabe here he'll explain the situation to you," said Cowley, knowing McCabe would be doing nothing of the kind. He was less sanguine about the chances of the D Notice he had imposed on the media, aware that half the town was in uproar.

 

Arriving at the sports club just after eight Sullivan had a swim and enjoyed a pleasant hour or so with friends in the bar. He wasn't surprised by Doyle's non-appearance but by the time the club closed at midnight was aware of a mild twinge of apprehension, suddenly remembering his warnings to Doyle about Glencairn.

Failing to contact Doyle the following morning Sullivan was concerned enough to ring the King's Head in Winchester where he learnt from an over-excited Assistant Manager about the happenings of the previous day. On the point of cutting short the flow of indiscreet chatter to ring the local police station Sullivan heard the magic name CI5 and froze. Only then did he wonder if it had been CI5 who had enquired about the hire car for Lady Richardson rather than Sir Nigel Richardson's office as he had assumed at the time.

Having heard nothing about a shooting in Winchester on the news and finding no mention of the story in any of the morning papers Sullivan had no difficulty in guessing who was responsible for the media blackout.

Concerned for Doyle's safety, having heard enough to realise the couple involved at the centre of the storm must have been Doyle and Lady Richardson, Sullivan telephoned CI5 headquarters.

 

Doyle remembered very little of the flight back to London or the car ride thereafter, cocooned in an icy state of detachment where little reached him. Having asked for and been refused news of Juliet Richardson he declined to say anything more, aware by that time that the slight, sandy-haired Scot called Cowley headed CI5.

He gave little reaction upon learning he would be spending the night with CI5, his numbed brain incapable of analysis or speculation as yet.

Led through long, musty-smelling corridors, their footsteps echoing around the grimy walls, Doyle fought for control, apprehension eroding his calm. The room he was taken to was vast and starkly furnished, the institutional green walls with piping fifteen feet above him uninviting, the bare concrete floor having no pretensions to offering comfort.

Shown the cot, blanket and chemical toilet Doyle found himself deprived of all his clothing and locked in for the night, the fierce light of the bare light bulb high above his head his only companion.

Standing numbly in the centre of the room, the concrete rough against his bare feet, Doyle turned, slowly taking in the details of his new abode. The metal door offered no hope of escape, the only windows too small to offer access, barred and twelve feet above his head. In time he came to hear the reassuring sounds of life some distance away.

The shock hit him soon after that, kaleidoscopic images of the day whirling inside his brain. Realising his hands were beginning to shake, his skin clammy with sweat as he remembered the faceless horror on the floor and the blood and brain matter that had covered his hand, Doyle sank onto the cot, wrapped himself in the blanket and turned his face into the pillow.

 

When Cowley came to question him Doyle was asleep, overtaken by exhaustion. Slow to wake and stiff from the bruises he had acquired Doyle sat up, his expression wary when he recognised the two men with the Scot as those who had been present in his room at Winchester: one of whom he had laid out, the other of whom had disposed of him. More in control of himself he saw that the fairer of the two men had a colourful black eye, the darker a swollen mouth. 

Giving a faint smile of satisfaction he stretched and removed the prickling blanket, no longer needing it now the cold sweat of shock had left him.

Ignoring the questions being fired at him, Doyle offered two of his own: how was Juliet Richardson and when could he speak with his solicitor?

"When we've had a little chat, Mr Doyle," said Cowley comfortably, the harsh lighting exposing every line of fatigue in his face.

His wits recovered, Doyle studied him with every appearance of ease. "Until I know how Lady Richardson is and am allowed to see her I have nothing to say." For all his surface assurance his palms were damp, panic and anger striving for dominance. He was aware he was out of his depth with CI5 and determined not to show it.

"I apologise for your lack of clothing. Would you care for another blanket? Or food?"

Untroubled by his nudity and determined to ask for nothing, Doyle stretched out on the narrow cot, his hands clasped behind his head, and closed his eyes.

CI5 could know nothing damaging about him, save that he was having an affair with the wife of a politically sensitive and powerful millionaire. Having had time to consider what he had overheard when CI5 had burst into their room it was obvious CI5 had suspected the terrorists were after Juliet. Apart from tailing her, CI5 had taken no further action to protect her, using her as the unwitting bait to draw the terrorists into their net.

Juliet had been hurt, terrified and thrown into the public eye because this small, fierce Scot had so decided. For that alone Doyle had decided they would pay. His knowledge of CI5 was shaky, but remembering snippets he had overheard whilst working at the sports club or with a few of his political clients, Doyle knew CI5 had wide-ranging powers. But they weren't infinite. If necessary he had a number of powerful contacts who owed him favours . Content that, should it become necessary, he could defend himself from CI5, he fell asleep to the background of Cowley's voice.

 

Waking at an unknown hour, the light bulb still glaring across the room, Doyle's anger slowly grew to the pitch where he could have cheerfully murdered the first person to come through the door. He was also very hungry and rather stiff.

That's what they want, he reminded himself, making use of the chemical toilet.

With Tony Sullivan on the outside he knew his disappearance would not go unremarked. Eventually Tony would find him. Doyle was less confident about Sullivan's ability to effect his release but he was confident CI5 wouldn't be able to hold him indefinitely without charging him. All their investigations would discover was that Juliet Richardson was cuckolding her husband with the junior partner of Housecalls. That wasn't a crime.

It could cost Juliet the marriage she had worked so hard to keep going yet needed to escape occasionally. If it did, Cowley would pay. People weren't pawns to be manipulated at his convenience.

Christ, but those men of his had been fast, particularly the one who had taken him out. Massaging his bruised ribs with a gentle hand, Doyle strolled around the room, finding nothing of interest but a small incongruous mirror. Staring at his own reflection while seeing nothing, memories of various spy films he had seen returned to him. A two-way mirror? For me? he thought incredulously, finding the possibility no more than amusing.

Aware of how stiff and sore he was Doyle began a gentle warm-up routine, coaxing suppleness back into his body. Satisfied at last, if even more hungry by this time, he returned to the cot and serenely awaited developments.

 

His breakfast was delivered by a cool, beautiful blonde who studied him with a thorough if disparaging calm. Returning the compliment Doyle slowly rose to his feet and inspected the tray she had placed on the bare wooden table: orange juice, eggs and bacon, toast and marmalade. The condemned man ate, he thought ironically. Giving the plastic knife and fork a wry glance he began his meal, making no attempt at conversation.

Ignoring her questions, he began to speculate on what the private detectives he had hired would find on Glencairn. So deep was his concentration that it was some time before he realised he was alone again.

 

By ten a.m. having had no more than three hours' sleep snatched on the couch in his office, Cowley was in no sweet mood. It wasn't helped when Ruth reported her failure to communicate with Doyle, adding that in her opinion he knew he was under surveillance.

A number of people had enjoyed CI5's hospitality over the years - guilty and the innocent, amateur and professional. Few innocent amateurs had remained so coolly in command of themselves as this man. Cowley knew Doyle had something to hide, uncertain as yet what it might be. While eighty per cent convinced Doyle had been nothing more than an innocent bystander to the attack on Lady Richardson, it was Cowley's opinion that for a self-proclaimed businessman unaccustomed to a violent world, Doyle's reaction had been disquieting.

Showered, shaved and with a clean shirt Cowley went through the various reports. Having a much clearer picture of events of the previous day, which had not been a conspicuous success for anyone, the only mystery that remained was why Bodie had frozen. Aware Bodie had been released from hospital and was on his way back to London Cowley knew it was one mystery he would solve.

 

"Good morning, Mr Doyle. I trust you slept well?"

"Don't you know?" Doyle had such a command of himself that he didn't glance at the mirror.

"Is there anything you would like? More food, coffee?"

"What I should like is information on Juliet Richardson's condition and to speak with my solicitor."

"All in good time. First I want answers to a few simple questions. This tape recording is for your protection as much as mine."

Doyle gave him a look of polite disbelief.

"Would you care to sit down?" Cowley gestured to the chair opposite that which he occupied.

Doyle glanced at the cot he was occupying, then at the chair and remained where he was.

"Mr Doyle, your silence will do nothing but prolong your stay here."

"I don't think so."

"Are you afraid of incriminating yourself by answering a few simple questions?" continued Cowley, his assessing gaze ranging over the younger man.

Doyle was accustomed to being assessed, if not quite in this way. Unintimidated, he studied Cowley in his turn, leaving the conversational burden with him.

"All I want is a few answers."

"And what do I get out of it?"

"I don't make deals when I'm blindfolded. Rest assured, if your information proves to be correct CI5 may be able to help you."

"That's nice. How?"

"We have a certain influence with the Director of Public Prosecutions."

Genuinely amused, Doyle smiled. "Then I suggest you save it for those who need it. How is Lady Richardson?"

"That need not concern - "

"Is she dead?" This something he had not considered until now, Doyle was on his feet.

"No," replied Cowley, frowning a little, reluctantly recognising that the younger man's concern for her well-being was quite genuine.

"Is she hurt?"

"First I have a few questions for you."

"I'm sure you do," said Doyle, subsiding onto the cot. "Until I've received a satisfactory answer to my questions I have nothing to say."

"I believe you will change your mind," said Cowley in the same mild tone.

Doyle continued to meet those cold blue eyes. "Are you threatening me?"

"Not at all, merely offering my assessment of the situation. You gave your occupation as businessman. What is your business?"

"Juliet Richardson at the moment. When can I see her?"

"When you have answered a few questions. First, I want - "

"Everyone wants, most people don't get. Why should you be the exception to the rule? A favour for a favour, Mr Cowley. There are only two things which interest me right now, Lady Richardson's well-being and speaking with my solicitor."

"Perhaps you will change your mind when you've had the chance to think things through," remarked Cowley. Too experienced not to realise he was wasting his time, he stopped the tape.

Closing his eyes, Doyle did not bother to watch him leave.

 

"What do we have on Ray Doyle?" demanded Cowley before McCabe was fully in the room.

"Not much, sir. He's a partner in Housecalls, has been for over five years as far as we can establish. Here's a list of his known associates. It's a funny mixture," McCabe added. "He's twenty-eight next month, single and with no live-in lover. Member of a couple of clubs, sports and gun. He's known and relatively well-liked in both. No credit problems. He has a pilot's licence - light aircraft - and he helps out at a sports club for underprivileged kids in Pimlico. Rumour has it he funds it too."

"Quite the altruist," remarked Cowley dryly, trying and failing to get a picture of the man.

"He can afford to be by all accounts, he's supposed to be a financial whiz kid. We've put Lewis onto that side of things. Word around his sports club is that Doyle has the knack of making money."

"How?" asked Cowley, familiar enough with a number of illegal methods.

"Playing the markets, sir. That's on page two of my report. And acting as a financial consultant to those down to their last million."

Glancing down the list Cowley's eyebrows rose as he studied Doyle's list of known associates. "Ach, none of this helps. I want more."

McCabe hovered. "There is a little more. I haven't had a chance to add it to the report yet."

"Yes? Well, out with it, man."

"The only trace on the police files is the fact that a Ray Doyle was the victim of an assault when he was fifteen - a homosexual assault. He suffered a broken jaw, cheekbone, couple of ribs and the little finger of his right hand. File was closed for lack of a lead although Doyle was able to give a comprehensive description of the men."

"There's nothing more current?"

"Speeding - one more and he could get his licence suspended. Apart from that, not a whisper. Lucas rang round a few of his mates on the Force. There's a rumour that when Doyle was beaten up he was working the streets as a prostitute. But he was never charged, never even called in. If it's true he must have kept his nose clean."

"A prostitute? Who plays the markets?" said Cowley with disbelief. "How reliable are Lucas's old friends?"

"They don't miss much, sir. But this was twelve, thirteen years ago. I checked out a couple of people myself, Drugs Squad. I couldn't get anyone to confirm this but I get the feeling Doyle may have given them the odd lead from time to time."

"I want confirmation. Your feelings are of no use to me, I need facts. Get me all you can on Doyle."

Of the view they had already worked miracles in the last eighteen hours McCabe gave him a look of horror. "But there isn't a sniff to indicate Doyle has ever been even loosely connected with the Quartet. He isn't a political animal."

Cowley stared him into silence. "That possibility will continue to be investigated, although it isn't my major concern. From this," he tapped the sheets of paper he held, "it doesn't look as if Doyle would have had the time - always supposing he had the inclination."

"Then why are we..?" McCabe's question trailed away. 

"Because I say so. And because I have the feeling Doyle could be of use to CI5. I want him cleared or implicated as fast as possible."

McCabe refrained from any comment on Cowley's feelings but his expression betrayed him.

"You have something to say?" asked Cowley.

"No, sir."

"Then on your bike. Oh, and tell Anson I want to see him. You may have disposed of the Quartet but thanks to your efforts we're no closer to discovering who, or what, brought them to Britain in the first place."

"They had Uzis, sir," protested McCabe. "And Lady Richardson was _that_ close to being killed."

"Naturally she was your first concern," remarked Cowley dryly.

McCabe's lips twitched. "Almost."

While Cowley's smile wasn't approving it was understanding. "Get back to work. I see Tyson has been helping you out with your inquiries."

McCabe's face lost all trace of expression. "For a while," he agreed, then hesitated. "Off the record, sir?"

"If it concerns the abilities of one of my staff to function it can't remain that way," Cowley reminded him, McCabe's intervention telling him all he needed to know.

"No, sir," agreed McCabe, making no attempt to continue.

"Tell him to relieve Ruth downstairs," said Cowley abruptly, knowing McCabe too well to take that oblique warning lightly. "Now back to you. I want Doyle from the cradle to the grave - his strengths, passions, vices and politics. Where and what he eats and with whom, where and with whom he sleeps. Everything."

Giving him an appalled look McCabe left the room, wondering if Cowley was finally cracking up under the strain.

 

"Didn't expect to see you back with us yet. The quack never cleared you for duty?" said McCabe. Quite apart from the sling he wore Bodie looked even paler than normal, a large bruise surrounding the tape at his hair line: the bullet crease that had probably saved his life.

"Not quite," Bodie admitted. "Cowley wants my report."

"Are you sure you want to give it?"

Bodie grimaced. "I'm sorry, mate. I froze."

"We noticed."

"For all of twenty seconds," said Lucas from behind them. "Lay off, Mac, Bodie saved your bacon. Mine, too. How's the arm?"

"Fine," said Bodie, making the standard denial. "How's the mopping-up operation going?"

"Don't ask," groaned Lucas. "I've never met so many outraged civil dignitaries before. The headmaster of Winchester College wasn't too thrilled about the helicopters on his playing fields either."

"Not to mention," added McCabe with gloom, "the fact that some German reporter was on holiday down there - can you imagine wanting to spend a holiday in Winchester? He sniffed a story and found the receptionist at the King's Head. You know, the tearful one with the beautiful tits. He gave her a bit of soft soap and got himself a scoop. Including Lady Richardson's name. Story came out in this morning's _Der Spiegel_. Cowley's fit to be tied."

"So much for the D Notice," remarked Bodie.

"I shouldn't mention that to Cowley," McCabe advised him. "Anson did and we haven't seen him since. But then he was already in disgrace for being inconsiderate enough to have his car die on him."

"How's Lady Richardson?"

"She was doing fine. Cowley had her brought up to London. He's got her tucked in a private room at the Princess Grace Hospital with a couple of blokes at the door. Now her name's splattered all over the paper, who knows how she's doing. It's lucky her old man's in the States."

Bodie nodded, his interest in Lady Richardson's forthcoming marital problems minimal. "What about the bloke she was with?" he asked with would-be casualness, his attention since he had recovered consciousness having been divided between Ray Doyle and the fact he had almost blown his job.

"Cowley's got him down in the basement. He wants an in-depth vetting op done on him. God knows why because we're ninety-five per cent certain he's clean. He's certainly managed to get up Cowley's nose."

Aware of a sinking sensation Bodie could only hope his expression wouldn't betray him. "Doyle's implicated with the Quartet?"

"Like I said, he might be. Probably not but he's bloody cool if he isn't. Pro cool, you know? The only two things he says are to ask after Lady R and when can he ring his solicitor. I'd like to think he's in it up to his neck - I owe him a split lip," said McCabe dourly.

Bodie was frowning at the floor, aware he could clear Doyle in a few short sentences. He found the prospect less than appealing. Already in the mire with Cowley he could foresee the murky waters lapping over his head if he told the truth about how he and Doyle had met. What was more, he had absolutely no wish to confess his night of homosexual bliss to Cowley, aware that the head of CI5 would have no compunction about using the information. And Cowley had more than enough on him as it was. Besides, once a whore...

"What's wrong?" asked Lucas, breaking Bodie's train of thought.

"Nothing. Nothing much anyway. I'm not looking forward to explaining my little cock-up to Cowley, that's all. Suppose I should get it over with," said Bodie, lying fluently. "Don't work too hard, fellas."

McCabe gave him a two-fingered salute and returned his attention to the computer printout he had been reading.

In no hurry to reach Cowley's office Bodie paused by a vending machine, unenthusiastically sipping what was erroneously advertised as coffee while he tried to come to a decision. Having had almost twenty-four hours to remember his meeting with Doyle he was confident that the likelihood of Doyle remembering him was remote. Unable to see, Doyle had only touch, sound and scent to identify him by; none of those would mean much after a day or two. It was almost six years since they had met. Doyle had probably forgotten the job altogether. I'll be one face in a long, long line. Christ, but he looked bloody gorgeous...

Business, Bodie reminded himself briskly, weighing up the advantages and disadvantages of confession. If he kept quiet he could avoid handing Cowley another nail for his own coffin. If he admitted his bisexuality Cowley would undoubtedly seek to make use of it. It would also be a very embarrassing interview. No one froze because they recognised a whore they'd fucked six years ago. Unless the whore had meant something, a small voice insisted. Bodie ignored it.

His silence wouldn't harm Doyle. Not really. He'll have an uncomfortable couple of days while Cowley checks him out, that's all. Let Lady Richardson explain him away. It isn't likely that charges will be brought against Doyle for whoring or that Cowley will maintain his interest once he discovers Doyle has no terrorist connections.

As for the potential security risk with Lady Richardson and Doyle... Bodie frowned before he discarded the idea. Whores didn't go in for industrial espionage. Unless they were undercover; the unwelcome thought refused to go away.

Forced to consider the very real possibility, Bodie thought back to one night six years ago, disconcerted by how much he could still remember of their conversations, their jokes even; the first time Doyle's sullen face had lit with a grin; the gentle mockery and his uncertainty at the end. More than that Bodie remembered the assured hands and the delectable arse, his body giving a responsive, reminiscent twitch.

Tossing the plastic beaker into the waste bin Bodie was prepared to stake his reputation on the fact Doyle hadn't been working undercover then; he was no terrorist. Or he hadn't been, Bodie corrected himself, angry with his own romanticism for assuming he had known the man, to the point where, besotted by one night, he had believed himself in love. A whore who supported Everton, that's all he had known. Doyle had hardly been pining away for the trick who had never returned. Probably gave him a bloody good laugh, Bodie told himself, although he didn't believe it, having felt guilty for too long about the promise he had made and hadn't kept. Guilt wasn't an emotion he was accustomed to or enjoyed feeling. But Doyle was no terrorist, therefore no threat, therefore keep quiet, he told himself as he made his way to Cowley's office.

Bodie's report was laconic, vivid and honest, save for one important detail. Making no excuse for his few seconds' inattention, aware he had let his team and himself down badly, he waited for the axe to fall. Having found a job that gave little opportunity for boredom to set in, and in which he excelled and could take pride, Bodie was very aware he was betraying Cowley's trust by his present silence about Doyle; the thought of giving Cowley any more rope to hang him with kept him silent.

Relieved to hear he wasn't going to be stood down from active duty once his injuries had healed Bodie remained at attention during Cowley's ensuing lecture. Ordered not to leave the building until he had finished his written report, Bodie made no protest, the novelty of which caused Cowley to give him a shrewd look before dismissing him.

 

It was almost six-thirty before Cowley had the opportunity to visit the enigmatic detainee in the basement, confident that by this time Doyle's hours of solitude would have given him plenty of time for mature reflection.

"Good evening, Mr Doyle. It won't surprise you to learn we've been busy doing a little checking on your background. You've led an eventful life with a number of varied careers, I see," Cowley announced upon entering the room.

Angry, watchful eyes flicked over him, then away but Doyle said nothing.

Cowley was confident he would break Doyle. An angry man was an incautious man. All too aware he could justify holding Doyle for very little longer unless his staff found something a great deal more interesting Cowley garnered his patience. If his instincts were sound Doyle could be of great use to CI5; as a partner in Housecalls he was acquainted with some very prestigious people, a handful of whom CI5 had been watching for years; he had entrée by way of the financial world and possibly the seamier underside of London society if those unsubstantiated rumours about his teenage years could be proved. It was Cowley's hope they would be. A bisexual would be a useful addition to the Squad. Sex was still the surest means of obtaining information even in the liberated eighties; equally, even Cowley had been forced to concede there were some acts he could not force his stubbornly heterosexual staff to perform at his behest.

"How much did Lady Richardson pay you per session?" he continued in the same matter of fact tone.

While Doyle's eyes flickered at the question Cowley realised he was on the wrong track when he saw the almost imperceptible signs of relaxation in the younger man.

"So, no fee. Payment in kind then - a snippet of information here, a name there. Untraceable but with considerable market value to the right people."

That gained him no reaction at all but the atmosphere in the room, which was warm for all that it was far removed from the June sunshine, was inimical, anger cloaking Doyle more surely than any clothes.

Cowley frowned, under the impression he had ordered Doyle's possessions returned to him that morning. It was then he noticed the overturned tray and congealed food spilling across the floor on the far side of the table.

"I had no idea our catering was so bad. It would have been a simple matter to find you something more to your taste. Is there anything you require?"

"Two things - information regarding Lady Richardson's physical and mental well-being and to see my solicitor."

Cowley studied him, aware that for all Doyle's cool demeanour his hours of confinement had taken their toll. "For a self-proclaimed innocent you are very insistent on the latter point."

"Wouldn't you be in similar circumstances?"

"Possibly," Cowley conceded. "I'll have some coffee and food sent in, together with your clothing. An electric razor too."

"Why bother, they'll only end up where my lunch did. How's Lady Richardson?"

"What about your lunch?" demanded Cowley, instinct alerting him to something amiss.

Doyle gave an impatient sigh. "I expected better of you, Mr Cowley. Spare me the projected scene of amazement. On balance I would prefer to deal with your hard men."

Having been on the point of leaving, it was a moment before the soft-voiced statement reached Cowley. "You have a complaint about one of my men?"

"Very good. What did you expect, congratulations?"

"I expect the truth, an expectation which I'm sure you'll appreciate is frequently disappointed," said Cowley, approaching the seated man.

Doyle was on his feet a moment later but he staggered as his right leg collapsed under him. Too experienced to attempt to go to his aid, Cowley's eyes narrowed as he noticed the angry grazes down Doyle's right flank and arm and the large, ugly bruise down the muscle of his thigh.

"It's fortunate you have good reflexes," he remarked, aware that Doyle might have required hospitalisation had the kick reached its intended target.

"What assets I have, I protect. Fortune had nothing to do with it," said Doyle dryly.

As he moved from the support of the wall to return to the cot Cowley saw evidence of further bruising and grazes from the concrete floor, the flesh over Doyle's kidneys looking a little swollen.

"Yes. Excuse me for a moment."

It took Cowley only a short while to summon Murphy and discover from him that Tyson had been on duty and was still supposed to be. Summoning a doctor and Doyle's clothes Cowley returned to where Doyle sat.

"What happened?" he asked baldly, his own anger only partially concealed as he set the tape in motion once more.

Doyle gave it a look of scepticism. "That's a pointless exercise. Are you trying to tell me no suspects ever get roughed up in CI5?"

"Everything that happens within CI5, and particularly within these walls, is my responsibility. There are strict procedures laid down for interrogations. Those procedures are varied only on my authority," said Cowley, anger blazing from him for all that he had yet to raise his voice.

"Then it looks like you have a problem with discipline," replied Doyle, not troubling to hide his contemptuous disbelief. "Not for the first time either. When was the public inquiry, ten months ago?"

"Almost eleven. You may also recall that a verdict of accidental death was recorded."

"Oh, I do," said Doyle. "It's been occupying my thoughts for several hours now."

Taking Doyle's point and having been placed in a position where it was difficult to defend CI5, Cowley broke off his attempt when there was a knock at the door. Murphy entered, spoke quietly for three minutes and departed, leaving a pile of clothes on the table, some of which Doyle recognised, more of which he did not.

"A doctor will be with you within thirty minutes. In the meantime, as your own clothes are badly bloodstained, Murphy has found you a basic change of clothing from amongst my staff."

Ignoring his own blood-stiffened clothing Doyle drew on briefs, jeans and a shirt: the jeans were a size too large, the shirt tight across the shoulders but they had the merit of being clean. Only now admitting how cold he was, for whatever reason, he shrugged into a white knitted jacket with gratitude and settled on the cot once more, having ignored Cowley throughout.

"I believe you'll find my office more comfortable," said Cowley. "I can't offer you a drink until you've seen the doctor but I can provide coffee and sandwiches."

"And another tape recorder?" Prepared to go anywhere if it meant he could leave this room Doyle moved stiffly towards the door.

"An internal inquiry into this incident has already begun. Unfortunately the only two witnesses to what occurred are yourself and Tyson."

"And the camera in the next room," said Doyle, following Cowley into the lift.

Cowley did not pretend to misunderstand him. "That was in Tyson's charge. It ran out of film."

Doyle smiled. "How very convenient." Following the older man down more civilised corridors a familiar sign caught his eye. "Okay if I use that?"

"Of course," said Cowley, following him in.

Giving him an ironic look Doyle approached the urinal. "Afraid I'll steal the luxurious fittings?"

"They serve their purpose," said Cowley, frowning when he saw the trace of blood in the other man's urine. Aware that Macklin and Ruth were interrogating Tyson he tried not to prejudge the issue, aware of what the repercussions of the attack on Doyle could mean for CI5, whose image was still tarnished eleven months after the public inquiry despite the fact that Coogan had just been sentenced to a seven-year term in prison.

"As does Tyson, I presume," retorted Doyle. His mouth set with discomfort he banged the drier harder than was necessary, the ensuing noise making conversation difficult.

"How did it begin?" asked Cowley as he escorted Doyle into his office.

To his private surprise Doyle told him. His bald recital boiled down to the fact that Tyson, who had, Cowley remembered, been working with Lucas and McCabe on the enquiry into Doyle's background, made a number of ugly comments regarding Doyle's sexual habits and preferences. When Doyle's response had been to ask if Tyson was experiencing any problems regarding his own sexual orientation Tyson had attacked him.

"One thing puzzles me," said Cowley.

"Only one?"

"For the moment. Why didn't you offer more than passive resistance? You proved you are more than capable of defending yourself yesterday."

"And because of it I came _that_ close to getting my head blown off by one of your men. I wasn't about to risk it happening again. Tyson didn't need much of an excuse."

"He threatened you?" Cowley asked sharply.

His expression distant, Doyle stared through him. "If you call having the muzzle of a loaded Smith and Wesson being ground in your face threatened, yes." Unconsciously his hand rose to a small bruise just beneath the plastic inset high in his cheek. That betrayal confirming his worst fears, Cowley exhaled slowly.

"I agree with your definition," he said heavily. "That doesn't sound like Tyson though," he added, almost to himself. Kate Ross had made him aware of Tyson's deteriorating mental stability after the messy and prolonged breakdown of his marriage. Cowley had chosen to dismiss her warnings as unnecessarily gloomy, Tyson having been a member of the squad since its inception and known to Cowley for eight years prior to that date.

"Do surprise me," said Doyle, this response obviously no more than he had expected.

Cowley was saved from the necessity of replying when his secretary rang through to tell him the doctor was in his surgery. "If you'll follow me," he said to Doyle, having explained where they were going.

"Is it usual for prisoners to receive a personal escort from the head of CI5?"

"It depends on the circumstances. This isn't a normal circumstance, whatever you may believe," added Cowley, ushering Doyle into the surgery.

An hour later Doyle gave the Scot an ironic glance before he began to work his way down the pot of coffee that had been provided for him, aware he would need all the assistance he could get with George Cowley.

"While I appreciate your remaining in the surgery to hold my hand I was under the impression medical consultations were confidential."

Sliding off his horn-rimmed glasses Cowley briefly pinched the bridge of his nose. "The record of your examination will be required for the internal inquiry," he said before returning his attention to the transcript of Tyson's interrogation. "Would it surprise you to learn that Tyson's report of events accords with yours?"

"That would be one way of putting it," Doyle agreed. "Why?"

Cowley frowned. "Why what?"

"Why did he do it? I presume CI5 isn't in the habit of employing homicidal maniacs."

Trusting his judgement and hoping only that it wouldn't be misplaced, aware of the ammunition he was giving Doyle, Cowley offered a brief resumé of Tyson's hitherto distinguished career, his heavy workload over recent months combined with the bitter disintegration of his marriage.

"I'm afraid your remark was in the nature of the last straw. It seems that prior to leaving Tyson's wife made certain allegations regarding Tyson's, er, sexual abilities and preferences. As she left only last night your comment touched a raw nerve."

"Are you saying it was contributory negligence on my part?"

"No, I'm merely giving the explanation I thought you wanted," snapped Cowley, aware of the backlog of work awaiting him.

Digesting that, Doyle poured himself another cup of coffee. "I thought he was simply another homophobe taking advantage of his position of power."

"Not Tyson. I've known him for more than eighteen years. Have you met an adverse reaction to your sexual preferences before?"

Doyle gave a faint, crooked grin. "We're discussing Tyson," he reminded Cowley mildly. "What will happen to him?" Aware that Doyle's antagonism seemed to have eased to a marked - and surprising - degree, Cowley told him the truth.

"Dr Ross, our resident psychologist, has recommended a short stay in hospital - one accustomed to the problems of those in high-stress work with a high security rating. For Tyson's protection, not yours. If - once he has recovered sufficiently, he will attend an internal review board. It's probable that he will be asked to resign," Cowley finished, his own feelings on the subject well hidden.

About to warm his half-cold cup of coffee Doyle raised the pot and glanced at Cowley questioningly before he poured out another cup. Taking it over to the Scot, an open magazine on the desk-top caught his eye. Coming to an abrupt halt he set the cup down in the first available space and picked up the magazine. A short while later, unconscious of being under surveillance, he allowed it to fall before wandering over to the window. From what could be glimpsed of his profile it was doubtful if he saw anything.

"You read German," remarked Cowley into the lengthy silence, gathering from Doyle's start of surprise that his presence had been forgotten. "Unfortunately we cannot muzzle the foreign press. I take it publication of this story will make difficulties for you."

"How could it, there isn't a mention of me - by name. I sound like a damn gigolo." Turning back to face the room, Doyle shrugged. "That doesn't matter. But Juliet . . . How is she?"

"Given the events of yesterday, coping very well indeed. She's a brave woman."

"Yes," agreed Doyle without elaboration.

Convinced by this time that the younger man's concern for her was genuine Cowley continued, "She's still in the Princess Grace Hospital, guarded by a couple of my staff, although that is no more than a precaution. We no longer believe her life to be in danger."

Doyle refocused on him. "The Quartet, or whatever your men called them. Why were they after her? Can you tell me?" he added, slow to accustom himself to his position as prime suspect.

"Not with any degree of certainty. For extortion, we believe. Her husband is a very wealthy man. Some of his companies are involved in government contracts."

"You thought she was shopping her old man to me? You're crazy," said Doyle with conviction. "You're sure she's all right?"

"She suffered a simple break of her collarbone - and shock. She is aware of - " Cowley gave the magazine a disdainful tweak " - this story. While obviously very distressed by its implications for herself she's also concerned about you."

"She's had a lot of practice worrying about other people," said Doyle, his manner a little absent. "Do you know if Sir Nigel is aware of the innuendo in this article?"

"Innuendo?" echoed Cowley dryly.

"I'm not interested in whether you approve of our behaviour, only in whether Sir Nigel knows of it."

"He knows. He contacted me earlier this afternoon. He is due to fly in to Heathrow in approximately two hours," Cowley discovered, glancing at his watch. "I have agreed to meet him at the hospital at eleven-thirty to bring him up to date."

"Obviously he'll want the full story," said Doyle, studying the floor with care. "What will you tell him?"

"The truth." Cowley found himself pinned by an unwavering gaze.

"Including the fact he and his wife were used by CI5 as judas goats to lure the Quartet into a trap?"

Cowley took a sharp inward breath. "What makes you assume that to be the case?"

"Do me a favour, why else should your men be so conveniently to hand? Besides, I overheard your men talking when the Quartet had been killed. What will you tell Sir Nigel, Mr Cowley?" Doyle's implication was clear.

"The truth," he replied steadily.

Doyle's tired eyes widened. "I believe you will at that. Well, you're certainly consistent whatever else you might be."

The ringing of the telephone interrupted them, Cowley less than delighted to hear that Doyle's solicitor was demanding to see his client, his arguments persuasive enough to cause the duty officer to ring through.

"Have him escorted to my office," said Cowley with resignation, before returning his attention to Doyle. "Your solicitor is on his way up. How do you suppose he knew where to find you?"

"Perhaps he reads German," shrugged Doyle.

"You aren't mentioned by name in that article."

"No, I wasn't, was I," agreed Doyle, re-seating himself when he saw Cowley was not about to continue.

The knock on the door announced Cowley's secretary. "Mr Keeble," she announced and withdrew.

"Mr Keeble!" Doyle was on his feet. "I thought perhaps Fiona might... But you, sir."

"Not in this case, Mr Doyle. Good evening, George," added Keeble with a benign smile, obviously enjoying the surprise his appearance had occasioned from all present.

"Arthur? Good God! You're acting for Mr Doyle?" said Cowley, severely disconcerted. The venerable firm of Hobson, Lace and Passmore possessed a fine reputation but did not usually handle criminal cases.

"As you see. It makes quite a change, I must say. I haven't seen you at the club for a while. Work's been keeping you busy, no doubt." Seating himself in the absence of any invitation to do so Keeble peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles at his client's bare feet. 

"My dear boy, what have they been doing to you? Are you injured?" he added in quite a different tone, all trace of mischievous good humour vanished as he noticed the stiffness in Doyle's walk.

Hesitating, Doyle glanced briefly at a silent Cowley before turning back to his solicitor; he avoided giving a direct answer.

"May I speak with you in private, sir?"

"Of course. That's what I'm here for - and to arrange for your release."

"You are aware, of course," interrupted Cowley blandly, "that CI5's powers of detention - "

" - are not infinite."

"Mr Keeble," cut in Doyle before battle could commence in earnest, "if I could speak with you - now. Five minutes, no more," he added, his attention returning to Cowley, who tried and failed to account for the urgency in the younger man's manner where previously he had been so cool.

"George?" asked Keeble.

Knowing full well that he lacked the evidence to justify holding Doyle beyond tonight and that the likelihood of there being any to find was remote, Cowley conceded defeat with a poor grace.

"My office is at your disposal. I should appreciate it if you could refrain from reading anything else on my desk," he added to Doyle before he went out into the outer office, the door closing with a decided click behind him. 

"And what, may I ask, was that about?" asked Keeble.

Doyle gave a dismissive shrug, his mind obviously elsewhere. "I need your advice, sir."

"I gathered that much," said his lawyer dryly. "Tony was less than coherent over the telephone. It has taken us some time to ascertain your whereabouts. Have you been well treated?" His assessing gaze missed no detail of the external signs of wear and tear, experienced enough to spot the strain behind the younger man's smile.

"I gather from what you said that you know Cowley," said Doyle, ignoring the question.

"We belong to the same club," said Keeble, taking the change of subject with good grace. "Are you worried that the acquaintance will prejudice the manner in which I handle your case?"

"It hadn't occurred to me. I'm just glad you know him on a personal level. Do you trust Cowley to keep his word?"

"On a personal level, implicitly. But you must realise the head of CI5 cannot always afford the same luxury. I urge you not to take any precipitate - "

"What I propose won't incriminate me. Besides, I think he already knows I'm not linked with those terrorists."

"Then what - ?"

"A friend needs help - help that Cowley and I are in a position to give - if he will agree."

"George Cowley is no altruist," warned Keeble, his misgivings clear.

"No, but he strikes me as being a realist. I have a proposal to put to him."

Keeble eyed his wayward client with misgiving.

Doyle gave him an engaging grin. "Relax, sir. I don't propose to implicate you. In fact you may wish to withdraw from this case - or at least for me to dispense with your services. There may be some adverse publicity," he added, his expression bleak for all that he continued to smile.

"For whom?"

"Only me, if all goes well."

"Then you may be glad of legal representation - unless you wish to engage a firm with a recognised expertise in the field of libel."

Doyle continued to meet the older man's shrewd gaze. "It might not be libellous," he said steadily.

"Ah." Removing his spectacles Keeble gave his client a look of severity. "While I'm aware you are averse to taking advice I should warn you that it isn't wise to involve yourself with George Cowley any more than you have to. Now, let me arrange for your release and we'll discuss the matter further."

"No! That is... I'm very grateful for your advice but I intend to remain here, voluntarily. I need to speak to Cowley as a matter of urgency. Alone," Doyle added. "While I may ignore your advice I do value it. Thank you for coming to my rescue." Extending his hand, he smiled.

Accepting that dismissal against his better judgement Keeble shook his hand and sighed. "Very well. But don't be so hasty in dismissing our services. The office operates a twenty-four hour service as you know. You may contact me through them at any time," he said with heroic self-sacrifice.

Appreciating as much Doyle was smiling with genuine warmth as he watched Keeble leave.

 

Taking a poor view of being turned out of his own office Cowley watched with astonishment as Arthur Keeble strolled towards him with a bland, "Good evening, George. We must have that game of golf one day."

"Where's Doyle?"

"Waiting for you in your office. He intends to remain at CI5 headquarters on a voluntary basis. I believe he has something he wishes to discuss with you. Something he believes I would advise against."

"I don't doubt it. I don't make deals."

"No? I seem to remember one or two while we were out in Korea," remarked Keeble with gentle inconsequence.

It was enough to make Cowley pause; he held the other man's opinion in high regard. "Arthur you're not telling me you - "

"All I'm attempting to tell you," continued Keeble, "is that Doyle has been a client of mine for more than eight years. I like the boy, even if he does ignore seventy-five per cent of my advice. One becomes accustomed to that in my line of work."

Knowing Keeble rarely spoke without purpose Cowley turned back to him. "You've handled Doyle's affairs personally?"

"I have. And I trust you know me well enough to know that is all I propose to tell you. However, he did ask me if your word was to be trusted. I believe I reassured him on that point. I hope I won't have cause to regret it. Should I be mistaken I've no doubt we'll meet again. Now I really must get home and off to bed. These late nights may suit you but I prefer to work more civilised hours. No wonder your game is so erratic."

"Thank you," said Cowley dryly before entering his office. Finding Doyle waiting for him, the copy of _Der Spiegel_ in one hand, he realised it was probable that he and Doyle would be able to reach an amicable agreement after all. He was also looking forward to hearing how Doyle would handle the negotiations.

 

Having fallen asleep in the rest room after completing his report for Cowley, Bodie awoke to find the place deserted and the time to be well after ten in the evening. Groaning when he realised his nap would probably cost him Yvette, who had not taken kindly to a string of broken dates recently, he tried to telephone her. Gaining no reply, he gave a philosophical sigh and made his way out into the corridor, hoping no one would see him here and ask why. He had endured enough ribbing already without anyone discovering he had dozed off like some old lady.

To his consternation he rounded a corner only to walk into Cowley, who had Doyle two paces behind him, both men in an obvious hurry.

"Bodie, what the devil are you doing here at this hour? Never mind, you're better than nothing," added Cowley cryptically, sweeping him along with them. "My car. We're going to the Princess Grace Hospital. You know the way?"

"Vaguely," said Bodie, confused and making no attempt to hide the fact.

Arriving in the car park Cowley glanced at him and gave an impatient hiss. "I'd forgotten your arm. I'll drive. Doyle, in front with me. Bodie, you're supposed to be wearing that sling."

Scowling at a grinning Doyle and an oblivious Cowley Bodie slouched in the back seat until his curiosity got the better of him.

"Why are we going to the Princess Grace, sir?"

"To see Lady Richardson of course. Sir Nigel will be there in approximately forty minutes."

"Oh." None the wiser but aware this wasn't a part of the usual aftercare service offered by CI5 Bodie returned to a sulky silence, wondering why his presence was necessary as Cowley parked illegally outside the front entrance to the private hospital.

"Flowers!" exclaimed Doyle as they entered the foyer. Without looking back he darted into the small, elegant florists only to reappear three minutes later. "I seem to have left my wallet behind," he said, sharing his expectant glance between the other two men.

"How much?" asked Bodie with resignation, knowing better than to expect Cowley to volunteer.

"Fifty-four pounds dead."

"Fifty - ! Bloody hell." Rifling through his pockets Bodie found £2.59 in change and an empty wallet. "Won't that do?"

Taking the money from him Doyle's attention had already turned to the Scot.

Cowley denuded his own wallet and pockets with a very poor grace. Bodie studied the floor, relishing every second of this, aware of the capital he could make of this scene in the squad room.

Re-emerging with an exquisite, if over-priced, display of flowers Doyle limped towards the lift, taking it for granted the two men would be following him.

"I didn't know he was injured," Bodie muttered to Cowley.

The look he received caused him to fall silent again. Grumbling under his breath he got into the lift, trailing after the other two men moments later as they got out on the fifth floor. Landing ankle-deep in carpet, the corridors more reminiscent of a top-class hotel, he wondered why CI5 agents weren't accorded this luxurious treatment when injured. Watching as Doyle entered Juliet Richardson's room alone, his curiosity got the better of him again.

"Why am I here, sir?"

"To listen to history being rewritten," said the Scot absently.

"Eh?"

"All in good time, Bodie. Doyle and I will be explaining the events of yesterday to Sir Nigel upon his arrival."

"Doyle's going to tell Sir Nigel he's been having it off with his old lady?" said Bodie in an incredulous undertone, Cowley's icy glare bouncing off him. "I thought Doyle was a suspect."

"Not any more."

Digesting that with an inner sense of relief Bodie looked up. "I still don't understand what I'm doing here. Except that I always obey orders, sir," he added, not troubling to hide his grin.

Cowley gave a reluctant smile. "Don't push your luck, 3.7. You're here to lend corroboration should it be needed. I think Doyle should have had long enough with Lady Richardson by now. Time is pressing. Shall we?" He waited for Bodie to open the door.

The room bore little resemblance to any hospital Bodie had inhabited or visited for years. Dressed in a vivid blue silk dress Lady Richardson looked to be in perfect health, save for the sling she wore and her pallor.

"I can't thank you enough, Mr Cowley," she exclaimed, taking Cowley's hand in both of hers. "Ray has told me what you propose and... I'm very grateful. However I don't wish to be the cause of... Are you sure this won't cause any difficulties for you, or CI5?"

She looked ten years younger than when Cowley had seen her that morning to inform her of the article in _Der Spiegel_. Mellowing a little under the influence of her very real charm and the large malt she poured him, he said all that was proper while mentally resolving to have words with Doyle who, all outward innocence, was obviously enjoying every second of the scenario he had proposed.

Sir Nigel Richardson arrived as Cowley was about to begin his second malt, the first few minutes taken up with greetings to his wife. The gruff awkwardness in the industrialist's manner changed the moment he turned to Cowley for an explanation of events.

"...fail to understand why CI5 chose not to inform us of the possible risk to my wife," he said when Cowley had finished.

"Darling, don't be obtuse. At that stage how could Mr Cowley be certain I wasn't in on the plot?"

Glimpsing the open surprise on Nigel Richardson's face at his wife's matter of fact but shrewd assessment and listening to the Richardsons thereafter, Cowley began to understand why Juliet Richardson should sometimes seek solace from outside her marriage when her husband of thirty-odd years betrayed so little understanding of her worth. That Doyle should not only be aware of it but hold her in such obvious regard was another puzzle.

"...in that hotel room?" finished Richardson.

His expression a studious blank Bodie studied the floor.

"I'm afraid that was my fault, Sir Nigel," said Doyle, stepping forward for the first time and extending his hand. "Ray Doyle."

"Hardly your fault, Mr Doyle," said Juliet Richardson quickly but a hint of anxiety had returned to her eyes.

"Doyle? We've had dealings in the past, haven't we?"

"Several times, Sir Nigel."

"Not through Housecalls," dismissed Richardson. "Didn't you work with Ian Nottage on the rescue package he was getting together for Toby Hillingborough?" His interest obvious, there was a recruiting light in his eyes.

"Amongst others. If I could explain what happened?"

"I wish you would. According to that damned magazine - "

"Quite," said Doyle with understanding. "Unfortunately, on the face of it, the matter is capable of misinterpretation - to those of a prurient turn of mind. I happened to be in Winchester for a couple of days. To my delight I met Lady Richardson coming out of the Cathedral. As you know she has been a valued client for a number of years. She found the heat rather trying so I invited her back to my hotel for a drink. The lounge proving to be both crowded and noisy, we retired to my suite."

Richardson gave a grunt of satisfaction at the word 'suite' Admiring the ease and fluency with which Doyle papered over the real facts Bodie returned to his study of the opposite wall while trying to account for the faint but unmistakable change in Doyle's manner and voice as he went on with the story. His concentration was returned to the content of Doyle's explanation with some abruptness.

"...Cowley's men must have been right behind them. They were magnificent, Sir Nigel. Quite magnificent. And so brave." Large-eyed and admiring Doyle leant forward a little. "If it hadn't been for them we would all certainly be dead."

"All?" echoed Sir Nigel, continuing to retreat as Doyle invaded his personal space. "How many people were in your suite at the time?"

"Only the three of us - Lady Richardson, William and myself," said Doyle, in the tone of one who had presumed a fact to be self-evident. "William and I were supposed to be enjoying a couple of days away from it all."

"William?"

"William," confirmed Doyle fondly.

A slight pressure bringing Bodie back to life, he stared with appalled fascination at the hand tucked through his arm. Aware of the willowy length of Ray Doyle pressed against his left side he schooled his expression, Cowley's cryptic comment as he had hustled him down to the car park earlier in the evening making more sense now.

"You were, er, with my wife and Mr Doyle when the terrorists burst in?" Sir Nigel asked him, looking a little ill at ease.

"I took a couple of days' leave so I could be with Ray," said Bodie, feeling Doyle relax against him.

"But you were injured," said Sir Nigel, his manner overly hearty, as if to confirm his lack of embarrassment. 

"Slightly."

"William was wonderful, too," gushed Doyle, patting Bodie's uninjured arm. "If not quite good enough."

Deaf to Sir Nigel's reply Bodie promised himself revenge for that remark. And on Cowley. He'd get even with the devious, manipulative old bastard if he died in the attempt. Why me? he wondered, aggrieved, closing his ears to the ensuing patter of Doyle's speech as he finished his whitewash job while wondering if he had imagined the abrasive-tongued Ray Doyle of six years ago. He resurfaced to hear Doyle say:

"...avoid any hint of scandal because of William's job."

Finding himself being pinned by a hard stare from Cowley Bodie said through gritted teeth, "I'm a civil servant, Sir Nigel."

"Working for you?" asked Richardson abruptly, turning to Cowley.

"Aye, Bodie works for me."

"Is CI5 in the habit of employing... That is..."

"Bodie is one of my best agents. What he does in what little free time he has is no one's concern but his own. I'm satisfied he's no security risk," said Cowley.

He was so convincing Bodie almost believed the story himself.

"In the circumstances both Bodie and Mr Doyle felt they had no alternative but to explain the true facts to you. I trust you'll agree the matter need go no farther."

Only then did it occur to Bodie that in setting him up Cowley and Doyle between them had put his career on the line; the media would see to that even if ministerial pressure didn't. His gaze hardened.

"I'm obliged to you for the efforts you made to protect Juliet. As for that article... I think you can leave that to me to deal with. Juliet?"

"I knew you would understand, darling."

"This has been a terrible business, Mr Cowley. While one hears about these affairs abroad one never imagines one's own family could be a target." Richardson gave his wife's hand an absent pat. "I understand my wife will be discharged tomorrow. Will she...? That is, should I arrange for a bodyguard for her?"

"Not at all. The Quartet are dead and our investigations have satisfied us they posed the only threat to Lady Richardson's life and safety."

"Then I take it there will be no objection to my wife's leaving the country?"

"None at all. No doubt you'll be taking a holiday together to forget this unpleasantness."

"That isn't possible, Mr Cowley. My husband is in the middle of - "

"It can wait," said Richardson with decision. "My God, Juliet, I nearly lost you. I thought the Bahamas," he added with a lack of certainty which betrayed the fact holidays had played a very small role in his life until now.

"Splendid," said Cowley heartily as he rose to his feet, having no wish to spend what was left of the night listening to the Richardsons' domestic arrangements. "We must let you and Lady Richardson rest. I'm sure you have a lot to discuss. Mr Doyle, may I offer you a lift home?"

"How very kind," murmured Doyle, offering a gentle salutation to Juliet Richardson's cheek and a lingering handshake to her spouse before casting a languishing glance at his scowling companion.

Bodie ground his teeth and endured, his control surviving until they were back in Cowley's car. "Sir, would you mind telling me why the bloody hell - "

"That will do, Bodie. Mr Doyle, you are a consummate liar," remarked Cowley, sounding no more than amused as he got the car under way.

"Frightening, isn't it," agreed Doyle crisply. "But I think he swallowed it, don't you?"

"I'm in no doubt on that score, although I didn't expect him to recognise which branch of the civil service Bodie worked for."

"You covered it well."

"That's my job," said Cowley. "It certainly wasn't his wife's reputation that was concerning him towards the end. From the light in his eye I imagine his press conference will provide some entertaining reading. I must say, he didn't seem particularly worried by his wife's presence in your room, even before you began your performance."

"He takes Juliet for granted."

"He may simply trust her," remarked Cowley dryly.

"Nothing so positive," said Doyle, declining to react to the subtle censure in the older man's manner.

"He seemed positive enough in his concern for her," said Cowley, his interest in the Richardsons non-existent now they were no longer any concern of CI5's.

"Maybe. I'm sorry," Doyle added, half-turning to Bodie. "I hope I haven't ruined your reputation completely."

"Not Bodie's," said Cowley, amused again.

"He was the perfect choice," acknowledged Doyle, sinking back in the front seat, "beautifully butch."

"I'm glad he met with your approval."

Not trusting himself to speak Bodie shared his glare between the two very different men in the front of the car, wondering what had prompted Cowley to compromise CI5 simply to save Lady Richardson's marriage.

"This isn't the way back to CI5," Doyle noted, glancing out of the window.

"I'm taking you home."

"Nice thought. There's only one problem - my keys are with the rest of my possessions back at CI5. So unless Bodie here is also an amateur cracksman - "

Abruptly changing lanes, Cowley turned the car round with a despatch that made Bodie give an unseen grin, gratified to realise Doyle was getting up Cowley's nose almost as much as his own.

"Am I to take it I'm no longer a suspect?" asked Doyle, sounding no more than mildly interested.

"If you were I would hardly have taken you to see Lady Richardson, whatever the circumstances," Cowley pointed out dryly.

"I was under the impression you wanted my statement."

"I do but having waited this long it can wait until morning."

The crackle of the RT interrupted any further dialogue. His grievances forgotten, recognising something big was up from Cowley's non-committal replies, Bodie was unsurprised when Cowley brought the car to a halt, depositing Doyle outside. Bodie was less than pleased when he found his own services being spurned and himself joining Doyle on the pavement.

Cowley leant out of the open window. "It could take some time to locate Doyle's belongings at this time of night. Control will order a pre-paid taxi to collect you. He can spend the night at your flat, Bodie."

"But - " Bodie found himself addressing Cowley's tail lights and turned to his companion. Slumped back against the railings, Murphy's knitted jacket wrapped around him, Doyle returned his scowl with interest.

"Cowley takes a lot for granted," he growled.

"You noticed that, did you. Can't you stay at a hotel?"

"Sure, if you'll lend me your credit card. Neither of us has any money, remember? My stuff's back at CI5, along with my trainers," Doyle added sourly, one chilly and grimy foot balanced on the other in an attempt to warm one. "I don't snore."

About to retort he knew that, Bodie stopped himself just in time. "I should bloody well hope not. I had other plans for tonight."

"So did I."

About to ask how much revenue Doyle had lost whilst in detention, Bodie kept quiet, afraid of betraying his knowledge of their prior acquaintance. It dawned on him that Nigel Richardson had accepted Doyle's claim to have known Lady Richardson for years without argument. With Bodie to think was to act and he asked Doyle outright.

Opening his eyes Doyle gave him a bleary look. "Because it's true. We've done a lot of work for the Richardsons. We've even arranged functions for some of Sir Nigel's companies. Everyone uses Housecalls."

"Housecalls?" echoed Bodie blankly, his mind slow to move from images of mass tax-deductible orgies.

"You must be the only person in London who hasn't heard of us."

"You mean Housecalls as in the agency?"

"I mean Housecalls as in the agency," confirmed Doyle with suspect patience.

"You work for them?" said Bodie with disbelief, wondering why, if Doyle had changed careers, he should have been caught having it away with Lady Richardson.

"So they tell me. Tony Sullivan and I are partners. At last!" exclaimed Doyle as a taxi pulled up beside them and so he missed Bodie's look of astonishment.

 

Still busy speculating how an ex-hooker could end up as a partner in one of the most respected and prestigious agencies in London Bodie dealt with the security locks to his flat and discovered Doyle prowling around the living room.

"I hope it meets with your approval," he remarked sarcastically, on edge now Doyle was on his home territory and trying to concentrate on the tired and irritable man in front of him rather than Ray Doyle as he had known him six years before.

"Very elegant. Perk of the job, is it?"

"When I have it to myself, yes. I'll find you some blankets and a pillow. The sofa's quite comfortable."

Doyle gave it a dubious look. "You've only got one bedroom?"

"That's right," said Bodie inhospitably before disappearing to retrieve the blankets he had mentioned. "There you go, he said on his return. "Bathroom's through there. 'Night."

"Where's the kitchen?"

"Through there. Why?"

"Because I haven't eaten for a good fifteen hours and I'm starving. Okay if I help myself to some food?"

"Why not," sighed Bodie. "Are you sure there's nothing else you'd like?"

"Only you, sweetheart," murmured Doyle huskily, draping himself in the kitchen doorway, one hip jutting forwards. 

"I suppose you think that's bloody funny," growled Bodie, only too aware it was a wish of Doyle's he would be happy to grant. "While we're on the subject, what the hell were you playing at back in the hospital?"

"What do you think! Christ, Cowley doesn't hire you for your brains, does he."

"Thanks very much. I didn't mean using me as a bloody decoy. Do you have any idea how camp you sounded?"

Relaxing, Doyle rubbed his nose and gave a faint grin. "If you think that was a bit ripe you should meet the guy I based it on. But it worked. Poor old Sir Nigel was so busy guarding his own virtue he forgot to pursue his line of embarrassing questions. And not just for me. Cowley set the Richardsons up without a qualm."

"Cowley sets up everyone, but for the right reasons."

"And that makes it acceptable?" Waking up a little more Doyle eyed his companion with interest. "You think a lot of Cowley, don't you?"

"He's okay," said Bodie. "Another thing I don't understand is why he let you lie through your teeth. He's a great man for the truth is George Cowley."

"Why don't you ask him," suggested Doyle, hauling himself away from the support of the door jamb. "I'm off to get some food." Watching Doyle's uneven walk into the kitchen Bodie was frowning as he showered and took himself off to bed, wondering what had happened to Doyle since he had seen him in Winchester; McCabe had taken him out but he hadn't inflicted that much damage. Twenty minutes later, seduced by the delicious smell of frying bacon, Bodie appeared in the kitchen to see Doyle about to sit down to what Bodie had anticipated eating for breakfast.

Eyeing Doyle's heaped plate and trying not to salivate too obviously, he asked, "Is there anything left?"

"Three eggs and a couple of tomatoes busy growing beards," said Doyle, making inroads on his meal.

"That's my bathrobe you're wearing," Bodie added, very conscious of how much of Doyle it was revealing at the moment.

"D'you want to wear two at once?"

Bodie scowled. "Is there any bacon left?"

"No."

"It's my bloody food."

"And very good it is too," said Doyle, his mouth full. 

Sighing, Bodie fried himself the three eggs and finished up the loaf of bread, toasting it to cover any possible evidence of mould. To his disgust Doyle made no attempt to share the bacon.

"Is there anything else?" asked Doyle, eyeing Bodie's last piece of toast.

Bodie picked it up quickly and shrugged. "Shouldn't think so but you're welcome to check." Absent-mindedly drinking from Doyle's glass he gave a splutter of protest. "Aspirin."

"That's right," agreed Doyle, having paused in his search to see what the fuss was about. "I found them on top of the fridge."

"You feeling okay?"

"No, I'm feeling hungry," said Doyle, viewing his haul without enthusiasm: two wrinkled apples, a banana so ripe it had reached the liquid stage and half a packet of soggy cornflakes. Giving a resigned sigh he bit into the apple, that offered little resistance.

Bodie hastily appropriated the other one, having realised it was every man for himself. "You look rough," he announced cheerfully. "I didn't realise McCabe gave you such a hard time."

"He didn't," said Doyle, finishing what Bodie had left of the aspirin and pulling a face.

"I'll make some tea, unless you want a drink?"

Doyle shook his head. "Milk, no sugar."

"Yessir," said Bodie with an ironic salute. "Have you seen a doctor?" he added. It would be just like Cowley to land him with a case of bubonic plague for the night.

"This afternoon. Patterson, Peterson, something like that."

"Peterson. He's one of ours," said Bodie, events of the evening beginning to make a little more sense to him. "Who did it?"

"Did what?"

"Don't give me that. Someone gave you a pasting while you were in custody. Who?"

"Happen a lot, does it?" enquired Doyle with interest. 

Bodie thumped a mug of tea down in front of him, spilling a little. "No it bloody doesn't."

"That's what Cowley claimed," offered Doyle, his hands curling round the mug with gratitude.

"Did you believe him?"

"I must be the gullible sort," explained Doyle in between sips of tea.

"It's a relief to know Cowley hasn't started running a marriage counselling bureau. You're dropping any charges in return for Cowley supporting the fairy tale you spun Sir Nigel, I take it."

"Charges for what?" asked Doyle.

"Point taken," said Bodie amiably. "I'll mind my own business. Right, who's going to do the washing up?"

Doyle set down his empty mug. "No one if you don't. Goodnight," he said.

Making more noise than was necessary as he washed up, it didn't improve Bodie's temper to realise he had been outmanoeuvred. His arm aching fiercely by the time he had finished in the kitchen he made his way through the darkened lounge to the bedroom, only to discover his bed was already occupied, although a corner of the duvet had been folded back over the empty half of the bed. 

"What the hell d'you think - "

"No one could sleep on that sofa," said a sleep-slurred voice, Doyle's face half buried in the pillows.

"Thanks very much." Short of dragging Doyle out of his bed Bodie could think of no alternative but to try.

"What's worrying you so much?" asked Doyle, reluctantly waking enough to peer up at the other man through his tumbling hair.

"The fact I like to choose who I sleep with."

Doyle gave a slow smile. "Well as that's all you'll be doing with me I'm glad to hear it. Can we get some sleep now?" Heavy-eyed, bestubbled and obviously naked beneath the duvet he exuded a rumpled sensuality it was impossible to ignore.

"I'm not sleepy," said Bodie silkily.

"Good for you. I'm knackered. Switch off the light," commanded Doyle, subsiding once more.

Stalking over to the bed in the darkness Bodie glared down at the relaxed sprawl he knew to be Doyle but afraid of sounding ridiculous, made no further protest. Shrugging out of his bathrobe he slid into bed, sourly noting that Doyle was occupying his side of the bed. Maintaining a meticulous distance from his companion, he was aware of the soap-scented warmth of the other man only a few inches away. Trying to find a position of comfort, every change made his arm give a twinge of protest, except when he lay on his back. He couldn't sleep on his back. Scowling up at the ceiling he tried counting sheep, arriving at the point where he considered murdering the stupid animals.

A sigh drifted over to him. "Not only butch and beautiful but broody too. God, but you're gorgeous when you're angry," murmured a familiar husky voice.

Against his will Bodie had to concede defeat and smile. "Prat," he said amicably. "My arm's playing up, that's all."

There were further sounds of movement. "Okay, you win, the bed's yours."

Bodie placed a restraining hand over a duvet-covered section of Doyle. "There's room for two," he said, surprising himself.

He waited in vain for any reply - or thanks. Taking him at his word Doyle had subsided, asleep within seconds. He barely stirred until Bodie woke him at eleven o'clock the following morning.

"Control rang in," Bodie told the bleary-eyed apparition blinking up at him. "Cowley won't be free today and he wondered if he could contact you when he is so he can take your statement." He concealed his own astonishment at the message, aware that Cowley's interest in Doyle should be non-existent by this time.

"I can just see me trying to refuse," said Doyle sourly as he crawled out of bed. He felt a hundred years old and had the suspicion he looked even worse, particularly in contrast to Bodie's dark elegance.

"Control also sent all your stuff round. You owe me two pounds fifty-nine," Bodie added, tossing the wallet on the bed.

Wordlessly Doyle took a five-pound note from it.

"Do you want your fortune read?" asked Bodie with interest, viewing Doyle's outstretched hand.

"Change."

"I haven't got any, remember? Call it a charge for bed and breakfast," said Bodie, cheerfully pocketing the money.

"I know what I'd like to call it," retorted Doyle. "Okay, as I've paid for it what is there for breakfast?"

"Soggy cornflakes and black tea or coffee. I'm out of milk."

"Oh, wonderful. That I can get at home," said Doyle, heading in the direction of the bathroom. "Have you got a razor I can use?"

"You can borrow whatever you want, except my toothbrush. Help yourself to clothes too but you'd do better to stick with those jeans, mine would be too big for you."

Doyle's face, a little more wakeful by this time, appeared around the corner of the door. "Boasting again?"

Showered, shaved and dressed, this time mostly in Bodie's belongings, Doyle gave his bare feet a rueful look.

"I suppose Control didn't think to send round my trainers?" he asked with little expectation, transferring his possessions into the pockets of a black leather jacket of Bodie's he had taken a fancy to.

"You guessed it. What size do you take?"

"Nines."

Bodie grimaced." I take eights. You might be able to get into a pair of my trainers but I wouldn't recommend it. I can drive you home."

"What will that cost me?" asked Doyle with suspicion, sipping unenthusiastically at his milkless tea.

Bodie looked hurt. He looked decidedly pained when he discovered Doyle's kitchen to be as bare of food as his own.

"I tried to warn you," said Doyle, still not sure how Bodie had found his way into his kitchen. Not that his company was much hardship. In fact if Bodie had been the civil servant he claimed Doyle would have invited him to more than breakfast, Bodie's brooding good looks, irreverent manner and powerful body all very much to his taste. He was too experienced not to have recognised Bodie's carefully concealed interest in himself.

"I thought you were simply another tight-fisted plutocrat," said Bodie with charm. "You've got a nice place. Bit bare," he added critically, remembering the empty, uncarpeted hall.

"Up yours," said Doyle with a grin. "I only moved in last week and I've been occupied elsewhere since then one way and another. The kitchen and bedroom are habitable. I'll have to get round to the rest when I can find time. There's a supermarket five minutes away. Shouldn't you be working?" he added, wondering if that was what Bodie was doing now, on Cowley's orders. It was too easy to relax in his company.

"Sick leave," said Bodie with glee, raising his arm. The nonchalant gesture was ruined when it gave a protesting twinge and he grimaced.

"Spartan," grinned Doyle unsympathetically. "In that case I'll drive."

Bodie eyed Doyle's Mini in obvious disappointment. "Is this it?" he said with disbelief. "I thought the rich and disgusting went in for flash cars."

"You can always walk," said Doyle mildly, trying not to dwell on the Aston Martin - albeit secondhand - he had been planning to buy; the surveillance on Glencairn bleeding him white, he had had to settle for something basic for town until he could recoup his losses.

"I was only joking," added Bodie with haste, having noticed Doyle's change of expression and wondering if he had hurt his feelings. "Buying a house in London..." He shrugged, then eyed his grinning companion with suspicion. "And what's so funny?"

"The sight of you trying not to look self-conscious. Afraid the Mini will dent your image, are you?"

"Get stuffed," said Bodie.

Having avoided carrying much by pathetic references to his injured arm, and eaten to capacity, that left Doyle remarking acidly he would need to go shopping again, Bodie sat back, wondering if he should break his cardinal rule about mixing business and pleasure and arrange to see Doyle again.

Interrupted by the ringing of the telephone, much of the ensuing conversation meant little to Bodie, whose main interest in finance was limited to keeping his own bank account in the black. Rising, he found himself being waved back into the chair as Doyle scribbled on the back of a paper bag.

"I'm not sure if I'll be able to get it done in time. I've been - " he cast Bodie a mischievous glance, " - a bit tied up the last couple of days. What time's your meeting with the bank tomorrow? Two? Okay, bring the plan round and I'll have a look but I can't promise. Now? If you must. It might have helped if you'd thought of this earlier. Yeah. Okay. In half an hour or so. Fuck," said Doyle, replacing the receiver. "So much for my plans for a night on the tiles."

"Work?" said Bodie.

"Yeah. Still, it'll keep me in petrol for the Mini," said Doyle, stretching with caution.

"You still pissing blood?" asked Bodie bluntly.

"How the - ? Oh, Cowley, I suppose," said Doyle, warmth vanishing from his face.

"No, I saw the location of those bruises. I know what it feels like."

"I'm fine, just stiff," said Doyle, aware of the change in the atmosphere between them, the constraint now they had been reminded of their very different lives.

"Good. Thanks for brunch. I'd better be going so you can get on," said Bodie abandoning with regret his earlier plans to get to know Ray Doyle better. With Cowley still showing an interest in him it would have been crazy. "Good luck with Cowley when you see him."

"I'll probably need it," conceded Doyle, walking Bodie out to his car and watching with some regret as Bodie drove out of his life. He was still standing in the middle of the pavement when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Jumping a good foot Doyle swung round to find Tony Sullivan glaring at him.

"And where the bloody hell have you been? I've been worrying myself - And why are you limping? Don't tell me - "

"Give it a rest, Tony. Come in and have a drink and I'll tell you all about it. You'll have to make it a quick one though because Conway wants some advice and is on his way over."

 

Returning to CI5 to keep his promise to Cowley, Doyle discovered the truth of the old adage that clothes make the man when Lucas and McCabe passed the restrained elegance of his appearance without a flicker of recognition. Delivered by his escort to Cowley's secretary Doyle learnt from her that Cowley had been unavoidably detained with the Minister. Declining coffee, Doyle made himself as comfortable as was possible on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs, already aware that CI5 wasted little money on creature comforts, and unfastened the leather attaché case he was carrying.

Within a couple of minutes he was engrossed in the business plan he had promised to vet in time for the meeting with Conway's bankers that afternoon. The task might have been completed already if Tony Sullivan hadn't decided that Doyle should celebrate his return to the world, that event had left Doyle with only three hours' sleep and a mild hangover.

Glancing up almost an hour and a half later as he heard a familiar voice outside the door, Doyle was in time to see it open. Clapping a colleague on the shoulder, Cowley smiled broadly before entering the room.

"Good morning, Mr Doyle. My apologies for having kept you waiting so long," he said, exuding bonhomie. "You haven't been wasting the time, I see. I trust this meeting isn't putting you to any inconvenience?"

Aware that behind the affable smile and friendly handshake Cowley's shrewd gaze had itemised the cost of his wardrobe and probably contrived to read most of the uppermost page on view Doyle gave a crooked grin and put his papers away.

"Not yet," he said, rising to his feet.

"Och, this is merely a formality I assure you - to keep our paperwork up to date, you understand," said Cowley leading the way into his office. "You'll have some coffee?"

Declining, Doyle seated himself opposite Cowley's desk, his attention directed to the microphone and tape deck squatting there. "Where would you like me to begin?"

"You're very eager this morning."

"I promised you my full cooperation with any questions you may have regarding the incident in Winchester. I'm here to keep that promise," said Doyle evenly. "However, I do have a meeting arranged for two o'clock. Should I cancel it?"

"Not at all. As I mentioned, this is merely a formality. Naturally CI5 has been conducting their own enquiries regarding your, er, relationship with Lady Richardson and your possible involvement with the Quartet."

"Naturally," echoed Doyle sardonically.

Leaning forward to activate the tape deck Cowley recited the date, time and location of the interrogation. 

Forty minutes later it was over.

"Is that all?" said Doyle, betrayed into surprise.

Cowley smiled. "I commend your powers of recall. You have a good eye for detail, even in a crisis."

"Was that before or after they'd laid me out?"

Cowley grimaced but had the sense to leave the subject alone, determined to learn more about the enigma that was Ray Doyle; recent successes elsewhere had left him with the time to do so. "I thought Sir Nigel's press conference went off well."

"Very well indeed. I take it you lifted the media blackout."

"In the circumstances it was the only practicable thing to do. It doesn't do to leave Fleet Street suspecting a cover-up."

Having skimmed all the morning papers Doyle gave an appreciative grin, having been relieved to find his own and Bodie's names conspicuous by their absence.

"No doubt the Richardsons are enjoying their holiday in the Bahamas," Cowley continued, making a question of it.

"Via Detroit," said Doyle without expression. "But at least he took Juliet with him this time."

"You've heard from them?"

"From Juliet. Is there anything you want me to sign?" asked Doyle, restive and obviously wanting to be gone.

"Such as?" asked Cowley blandly.

"A form of waiver, or whatever document CI5 uses in these circumstances."

"Regarding what?"

"Tyson's attack." Receiving a blank look Doyle took the point. "No, of course not, nothing happened after all. While I'm very flattered to receive the personal attention of the head of CI5 I'm also surprised you should be taking the trouble. Or should I regard this as a PR exercise on behalf of CI5?"

His good humour undiminished, Cowley's lips twitched. "I had hoped to present CI5 in a more favourable light, I must admit."

"The décor of your office is certainly an improvement on the basement."

"I take it I've left it too late."

"Not at all," said Doyle politely. "It's been a most instructive experience but I'm sure you'll understand when I say it isn't one I care to repeat. What I don't understand is why you should go to so much effort. You already had my agreement to forget any irregularities."

"But no guarantee you would abide by it," said Cowley pleasantly.

"I wondered when you would think of that," admitted Doyle. "How is Tyson?"

The quick glance Cowley shot him enough to confirm that the query was without malice, he said briefly, "Not good." His air of satisfaction was gone.

"But his condition will improve?"

"In time. He's unlikely to work for CI5 in any capacity again."

"It's a demanding life your staff lead."

"It is. And dangerous, often thankless and always poorly paid. Is it a life you have ever considered leading?""

Open astonishment on his face Doyle stared at him for a moment. "Never. I would be singularly ill-equipped to survive it."

"I would dispute that. You possess a number of the requisite skills to my knowledge, not least as a marksman and your skill in unarmed combat. Who taught you the latter?"

"An instructor at the sports club I go to and Tony - my business partner. It's useful exercise when you have a sedentary job."

"You haven't always had a sedentary job of course."

"I've no doubt my file makes fascinating reading but I'm already familiar with all the details," said Doyle, rising smoothly to his feet. "If there is nothing more - ?"

"I do have a few more questions, minor points I should like to clarify."

Feeling under obligation because of the deal Cowley had agreed to, and his own very rash promise to answer any questions Cowley might have, Doyle reseated himself with distinct reluctance. 

"I understand you were the victim of a homosexual assault at the age of fifteen - when you were working the streets of Soho as a prostitute. Is that correct?" asked Cowley in the same conversational tone.

It was a moment before Doyle trusted himself to speak, aware he could not afford the luxury of anger with this man. "Yes." Volunteer nothing and stick to the truth where you can, he reminded himself.

"Was that a voluntary decision on your part?"

Doyle's eyebrows rose. "To be assaulted?"

"To be a prostitute."

"No one forced me into it."

"What made you work the streets?"

"Economic necessity."

"You never had a pimp?"

"No," replied Doyle, retaining a precarious hold on his temper.

"When you were sixteen you worked for the Marlborough Sports Club in various capacities. Did you continue to pursue your former line of work?"

"Yes."

"But not through financial necessity?"

Doyle took a calming breath. "I had become more ambitious."

"Did you work as a prostitute with the club's knowledge or connivance?"

"Hardly."

"When you were seventeen you left the club's employ to join Housecalls as an apprentice mechanic. That must have entailed a severe drop in salary."

"A reduction. Not that severe."

"Indeed not, for you managed to purchase a two-bedroomed flat within the year."

"I made some shrewd investments," said Doyle, relaxing.

"So by that stage you had ceased working as a prostitute?"

Doyle willed himself not to blink. "No."

"I see. Did you continue with Mr Sullivan's knowledge or connivance?"

"Perhaps you should ask Tony. But I'd do so by phone, he's inclined to be a little hasty when angry."

"I'll bear that in mind. You don't have a police record?"

"Should I have?"

"I'm sorry, are these questions distressing you?"

"Their purpose is certainly puzzling me but it's gratifying as one of the many taxpayers whose money goes towards funding CI5 to know my money is being put to good use." Doyle refused to surrender to the temptation to ask any of the questions buzzing in his brain, afraid of giving Cowley more information than he already had and thereby ruining Tony Sullivan and Housecalls. He wished he had listened more closely to Arthur Keeble's warnings regarding the Scot.

Sitting back in his chair Cowley toyed with his glasses. "You interest me, Mr Doyle. From a fifteen-year-old whore to a respected financial consultant and partner in Housecalls thirteen years later is no mean feat."

Refusing the proffered bait, Doyle waited for the older man to get to the point.

"You have been very honest with me, to a degree, if not very verbose. That's in stark contrast to your silence at our previous meetings. Why?"

"You know why," said Doyle, finding it increasingly difficult to remain still, every muscle locked tight with the tension gripping him, his anger needing some release. 

"You're a man of principle?"

"Is it a luxury you would see denied to ex-whores?"

"Are you ashamed of your past?"

"Should I be?" returned Doyle, in control of himself once more, aware of the sweat trickling down his back.

"I hoped I had avoided sounding judgmental."

"You'll be disappointed then. Is that all?"

"Not quite. Housecalls has a number of prestigious clients."

Not caring for this line of questioning Doyle poured himself a cup of coffee from the jug on Cowley's desk, surprised to discover his hand was quite steady. "Including the Prime Minister," he agreed.

"I doubt if she has made use of all Housecalls's services."

"Hardly. The Secret Service - or whoever is responsible for her safety - see to most of her needs."

"The, er, staff of Housecalls are renowned for their discretion."

"As you pointed out Housecalls has a number of prestigious clients."

"Many of whom would be extremely vulnerable to blackmail."

"In your position as head of CI5 you would know that better than I. Housecalls doesn't deal in the secrets of others. Nor do I."

"I'm inclined to believe you," said Cowley. "May I offer you a drink?"

"Isn't it a little early in the day?"

"For you perhaps. As I've worked through the night, no. It is midday."

"Time flies when you're having fun."

"I have one or two more questions I should like answered. Off the record," added Cowley, deactivating the tape recorder.

"Then I suggest we both leave here and go to a location of my choosing," said Doyle, unimpressed with that show of good faith.

"You don't trust me?"

Doyle gave him a polite smile.

"Then perhaps I should ask my last question first. Have you ever considered joining CI5?"

Doyle's cup clattered back into its saucer. "Have you lost your mind?"

"I would have preferred to lead up to the offer with a little more subtlety I must admit," Cowley conceded.

"Are you in the habit of recruiting ex-whores and suspects?"

"You are the first."

"Were you serious just now?"

"Very."

"But you don't know anything about me," said Doyle blankly.

"I think you'll find we've managed to compile a fairly comprehensive dossier."

"Since Tuesday?"

"Have a look," said Cowley, pushing a slim folder across the desk.

Hoping this was a nightmare he would soon wake from, Doyle began o skim the close-typed pages, relying on the acting skills he hadn't been required to use for six years to camouflage his shock. While the majority of the report relied upon rumour, speculation and hearsay, his life since arriving in London at the age of fifteen was set out with a frightening degree of accuracy. It revealed, almost to the month, when Housecalls had stopped offering a portfolio service to favoured clients - yet mentioned none by name. There were important gaps, and no corroborative evidence to support many of the suppositions made.

By the time he looked up from the last page Doyle had gone beyond anger as he skimmed the report back to Cowley. "Fascinating, if inaccurate. Are you attempting to blackmail me?"

"Not at all. It's customary for recruits to see their personal files."

"Is that before or after the rest of the squad have seen them?" asked Doyle, his expression undergoing no great change. "As I mentioned, I have a meeting in the City at two."

Aware he had miscalculated, Cowley eyed the younger man. "You won't consider joining CI5?"

"You couldn't afford me and I'm damned sure I couldn't afford you. Goodbye." Without waiting for any reply Doyle left. Finding the outer office empty, he stalked unchallenged through the corridors, out of the building and into the nearest pub.

 

His afternoon meeting having been over-long and non-productive Doyle's mood was not improved when Tony Sullivan telephoned to remind him he had promised to take charge of the Sullivan boys that weekend.

Woken at the ungodly hour of six a.m. by Gareth's ghetto blaster playing Anthrax at full volume, Doyle's Saturday went steadily downhill from there. By nine o'clock Gareth was sulking in his bedroom, Matthew was looking noble and misunderstood in the bathroom and Doyle's hangover was undiminished.

Guiltily aware he had drunk too much in an effort to forget some of the more unpleasant aspects of the previous week and then taken his ensuing misery out on the boys, Doyle mounted an assault on the stairs to make his apologies. They heard him out in an uncooperative silence. 

"I meant to be home before you last night," he added.

"You got plastered instead," said Matthew. "We heard you come in."

"Yes, you would have done," Doyle agreed.

"If you had something else planned before Dad lumbered you with us you only had to say. We're quite capable of looking after ourselves," said Matthew, whose seventeen-year-old dignity resented the fact he had a babysitter, albeit Ray Doyle.

"Don't throw a moody on me now," begged Doyle, wondering if Matthew was still growing or if he had shrunk overnight; anything seemed possible this morning. "I've got a hell of a headache. The brandy's fault, not yours I know, but..."

"You don't mind having us then," said Gareth with a regrettable amount of volume.

"Of course I bloody don't."

Never one to hold a grudge Gareth gave him a sunny beam; Matthew thawed infinitesimally to say, "You look horrible."

"Thanks." It hurt to smile, as Doyle discovered.

"Can soon fix that," said Gareth eagerly. "I know just the thing. Digby - he shares a room with me - makes it up for his mother. She swears by it and she should know. She's a dipso."

"I'm not that bad," protested Doyle faintly, avoiding Matthew's reproving gaze.

"You never used to drink this much. A run would do you more good, get rid of all the toxins."

"You must be joking. What would you know about it, your idea of a good evening is to bore the pants off Cindy pratting on about politics. Shall I make it for you, Ray?"

Against his better judgement Doyle swallowed Gareth's preparation. Within five minutes he was quite prepared to believe Digby's mother swore, but whether because of or at it he was beyond caring. Having been miserably sick he recovered enough to swallow four Aspirin and drink some water; he began to see a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

"Sorry, Ray," said Gareth for the third time, still hovering at his shoulder.

"It must have been the tabasco sauce that did it. Unless it was the raw egg," mused Matthew, cheering in inverse proportion to Doyle's misery.

He shuddered. "When I'm feeling human again you'll regret that remark," he promised with feeling.

"Hate to admit it but you do look better," said Matthew with a faint grin of acknowledgement.

"Feel it," Doyle conceded, getting to his feet and relieved to discover his stomach was his own again.

"You're not going back to bed or anything like that, are you," said Gareth, disbelief and disappointment echoing in his voice.

Sadly Doyle abandoned his plan to die quietly in a darkened room. "Of course not. What do you want to do with what's left of the day?"

"I thought we were going to help you with the decorating," said Matthew.

"It'll be good fun," prophesied Gareth. "Dad never lets us help with the best bits. I've always wanted to have a go at plastering."

Mentally congratulating his partner on his good sense Doyle put up a token struggle. "There isn't much point in starting that. You'll both be going out for the evening."

"I'm not," said Gareth with decision. "I can see Julie next Sunday and as Cindy dumped old sobersides here..." 

"That's enough from you," interrupted Doyle, discerning the reason for Matthew's current lack of joie de vivre with no difficulty now. "Okay, decorating it is. Forget the plastering, I want to get the study fit to use. Stripping wallpaper, okay?"

It was at quarter-past four that afternoon, having won a little peace by sending Gareth and Matthew out to get a new bit for his drill, that Doyle discovered a small metal disc concealed under the pelmet he was removing. Perched on top of the step ladder he turned the disc between his fingers for a full minute before he realised what it must be. Familiar enough with boardroom bugging, it hadn't occurred to him that he might ever be a target. Carefully he replaced the device, wondering how many more there might be scattered around the house. Not that anyone would have heard much since he had moved in last week, he'd hardly been here, but it was the principle. Bloody Cowley, he thought furiously, able to think of no one else who would bother.

Abandoning his plans for the study, aware Gareth and Matthew would soon be back, he went to shower and change. Finding Doyle much more his usual self and putting his preoccupation down to the remnants of his hangover, the boys returned to find Doyle proposing to visit the cinema, followed by a meal at the Hard Rock Café. Sunday they spent down at Bisley and again ate out.

Monday morning Doyle left the house as soon as Tony Sullivan had collected his sons. Using the telephone kiosk at the end of the road, and trying not to look over his shoulder to see if he was being followed, feeling very paranoid by this time, Doyle engaged the services of a security firm who specialised in selling and detecting the presence of electronic surveillance equipment.

oOo

On his return to the office on Monday afternoon Cowley found a small package marked for his attention. The ten devices it contained were familiar to him; the note from Doyle saying, 'Yours, I believe,' was not. An hour later Cowley learnt Doyle had also repaid the £52 he had borrowed, in one-pence pieces.

Grateful that Betty rather than any irreverent member of his squad was the only witness to the delivery, Cowley fingered one of the small deactivated discs, recognising the design as one commonly used by the Intelligence services. Frowning, he reached for the telephone.


	3. Chapter 3

Back on light duty, and hating every minute of it, Bodie was less than enchanted when the call came through from Cowley just as he was about to abandon the hated paperwork and leave for the night. His enthusiasm further waned when he learnt he would be acting as Cowley's chauffeur, the task not sufficient to make up for his ruined date.

Briefed by Cowley during the drive, which was lengthy thanks to the heavy traffic, on the salient points of Doyle's life history, Bodie's mind was reeling by the time he found a parking space thirty yards down from Doyle's house.

"We're going to charge Doyle?"

"Don't be a fool," said Cowley irritably. "With what?"

"Well, soliciting," said Bodie, feeling uncomfortable. 

"Considering I have no means of substantiating the charge, hardly."

"Then why are we still interested in him?"

Cowley gave him a curious glance. "You can't imagine?"

"No, sir." While irritatingly conscious he wanted Ray Doyle, Bodie could see no reason for Cowley's continued interest now Doyle had been proved to be on the side of the angels, albeit with his primary feathers a little singed.

Giving an irritable sigh Cowley left the car, peering back inside when Bodie betrayed no sign of movement. "Well come on, man."

"You want me to come with you?"

"I certainly didn't bring you here to admire the scenery," snapped Cowley with asperity, aware Bodie had been giving less than his full attention to his work for a week now.

"No, sir." Not looking forward to the forthcoming meeting for a number of reasons, Bodie left the car.

 

Still talking as he opened the door Doyle's smile turned to stony-faced recognition when he saw Cowley at Bodie's side. Planting himself in the doorway he remained silent.

Appreciating the tactic, patience in moments of stress something he had been trying to instil in Bodie with a conspicuous lack of success, Cowley said, "Good evening, Mr Doyle. There are several matters I should like to discuss with you."

"Go ahead."

"I had hoped you would invite us inside."

"Then you'll be disappointed. Guests are welcome, you're neither welcome nor invited. Goodnight."

"Ray, is anything wrong? Do hurry or we'll be late."

Glimpsing the beautiful brunette crossing the hall Bodie could only admire Doyle's taste and try to subdue his irrational twinge of jealousy of her. They were obviously planning to go out for the evening, Doyle's bow tie still unfastened, his evening shirt half open. The soft swelling at his groin was beautifully displayed by his well cut trousers, small nubs of flesh rubbing against the fine lawn shirt. Bodie began to salivate.

"We won't be late," Doyle called after her, half-turning. "These gentlemen are just leaving."

"Mr Doyle, I really must insist - "

"On what grounds?" he demanded, swinging back to face Cowley.

Unruffled, the Scot produced a small box. "On the grounds that at no time has CI5 placed you under electronic surveillance. Yours, I believe."

Straightening the arm resting against the door jamb, Doyle's eyes narrowed. "You expect me to believe you?"

"Even CI5 requires the approval of the Home Secretary before placing anyone under electronic surveillance. None has been sought."

"And of course you wouldn't dream of breaking the rules?"

"You aren't important enough for us to bother," said Cowley frankly.

"That's what I thought," said Doyle, relaxing a little. Taking the package from him, he tossed it lightly in his hand. "If CI5 isn't responsible, who is?"

"That's what I should like to know. May we come in? You'll agree the matter should be discussed."

"I was just getting ready to go - Shit, I suppose you'd better," sighed Doyle. "You'll have to sit in the kitchen, it's the only habitable room downstairs at the moment. Straight ahead of you. I'll be with you in a minute."

When he finally joined them in the kitchen there was an angry glint in his eyes. Having heard the altercation which had taken place in the hall, followed by the sound of a slamming door, Doyle's announcement that Fiona had left was hardly a surprise.

"I'm sure you'll be able to console the young lady at a future date," said Cowley, with no real interest.

Bodie gave him a look of disbelief, recognising a broken romance when he heard one, Fiona's audible comments to Doyle not dissimilar to those Yvette had made to him an hour and a half ago.

"Considering this is the second time I've stood her up in a week courtesy of CI5, it doesn't seem very likely," said Doyle acidly. "Don't you two have anything better to do than ruin other people's evenings?"

"Plenty," said Bodie. Tired of waiting for an invitation he got up to make some coffee.

"Make yourself at home."

"Ta. You want a cup?" asked Bodie, seeming impervious to snubs.

His glare of outrage bouncing off the back presented to him Doyle slowly exhaled. "No, but while you're making yourselves at home there's a bottle of Glenfiddich under the sink. I'm going to change. I won't be long."

True to his word he reappeared in a short space of time wearing patched Levis and a faded red Snoopy sweatshirt. Betraying no sign of impatience at having been kept waiting Cowley continued to sip his coffee. Bodie, who had abandoned hopes of salvaging something from this, was munching his way through the bunch of grapes which had been sitting on the work top.

"I should have hidden them," said Doyle sourly, pouring himself some coffee and collecting a pained glance from Cowley when he topped it up with scotch. Bodie only grinned and helped himself to another grape.

"You seem to have Bodie's measure," remarked Cowley.

"And yours. I appreciate your explaining these," Doyle gave the box a disdainful prod, "aren't CI5's. For some reason I believe you. But why are you here? Why should CI5 care if I'm being bugged?"

"Unauthorised electronic surveillance is an offence."

"Not good enough. That's CID not CI5," said Doyle with impatience.

"By your own admission Housecalls has some prestigious clients."

A grin spread across Doyle's face. "You're not seriously suggesting a master criminal is bugging my house in the hope of getting details of clients? In case you didn't realise, the security at most stately homes is pathetic, and a quick visit and fee of three quid would be enough to demonstrate as much. Try again. Any Housecalls business is dealt with at the office. No client has my private phone number. Anyway, I thought of that. The firm who swept this place clean checked out the office and Tony's house. Both were clean as a whistle. The bastards even bugged my bloody motorbike."

"Thorough," remarked Cowley, reaching for the bottle of Glenfiddich, although whether the comment was a reference to Doyle or to those who had kept him under such tight surveillance wasn't clear. "I take it you're satisfied the firm you hired are competent in their chosen field?"

"They're the best I know of."

"You used McKenna's then." 

Doyle gave a resigned nod, wondering if Cowley had found out yet how much it had cost him. 

"They are the best, if perhaps a little too expert for my liking on occasion."

"Stepped on CI5's toes, did they?" said Doyle flippantly. Unshrivelled by Cowley's look of displeasure he turned his attention to Bodie, his hand remaining outstretched until he received a share of the rapidly vanishing grapes.

"We have yet to establish why someone should wish to place you under electronic surveillance," Cowley reminded him. "It isn't the work of any of the other Intelligence services."

Doyle inadvertently swallowed a grape pip. "Did you expect it to be?"

"It was a possibility that needed to be investigated."

"So you did," said Doyle, wondering how many files bearing his name there were floating around London.

"Relax," Cowley told him, recognising as much, "You've only me to worry about."

"That's a weight off my mind," said Doyle with heavy irony.

"It brings us no closer to the truth however. You have an excellent reputation in certain sectors of the City. Could your work as a financial consultant have made you any enemies?"

"Not everyone loves me," Doyle conceded. "Independent advisers aren't too popular in some circles, particularly since the bubble burst. A lot of people lost their shirts in the last crash."

"But you weren't one of them."

"I get by. What you've got to remember is that I'm strictly a small fish in a bloody great ocean of sharks. I'm not worth the trouble someone's gone to."

"Don't under-sell yourself."

"I don't," Doyle assured him, his smile shark-like, yet to warm to the older man. "I'm a realist. I'm not worth the effort."

"The contents of that box say otherwise. Do you have any other enemies?"

"None that I know of. It all sounds very melodramatic," Doyle added, staring at the box as if to convince himself the episode wasn't a figment of his imagination.

"None at all? No one who might believe, rightly or wrongly, that they have a cause for complaint. An ex-client or lover?"

"Now there's an exciting thought. No."

"Perhaps it relates to an event farther back in your past. By your own admission you've had a somewhat varied career."

Able to recognise the warning signs in Doyle if Cowley could not Bodie kept his head down, concentrating on his coffee.

"If you have a point to make get on with it. I'm not open to blackmail. If that's what you have in mind sell your rumours to the Mirror or Sun. I'll see you in court."

Genuinely amused, Cowley smiled at the younger man with something approaching approval. "I wouldn't dream of embarrassing any of your former clients."

"Name one," challenged Doyle.

"I trust McKenna's are to be relied upon," murmured Cowley before offering three names.

"I'm flattered," said Doyle, "although I doubt if any of those you mentioned would be." He could only trust his relief was well hidden, the names familiar to him only as former habitués of the Marlborough Club and known homosexuals thanks to past indiscretions.

"I was wrong then," remarked Cowley.

Recognising the trap Doyle gave him a bland smile. "If you say so."

"You guard your former clients well. Why?"

"Why not? If you or the walking stomach here decided to visit a whore, male or female, who would care except your nearest and dearest and whoever checks up on you because of your job?"

Enjoying a vivid picture of George Cowley doing the cottages Bodie choked on a mouthful of scotch. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled.

Under no illusions, Cowley gave him a severe stare. "I wish I could believe you. I take your point, Mr Doyle. Not everyone shares your view however." He collected up the small box. "Shall I investigate further?"

"You're going to a lot of trouble on my behalf."

"That's what we're paid for. As you pointed out, C15 is funded by the government and thus indirectly by the taxpayer."

Bodie looked up, wondering what he had missed and how Doyle had got away with it. It's probably easier when you're not working for him, he decided, realising Cowley was still talking.

"...thanks for repaying the money you borrowed last week. We certainly won't be short of change for a while."

"Sir?" asked Bodie with more hope than expectation of having his curiosity satisfied.

"Mr Doyle chose to repay the sum of fifty-two pounds in one-pence pieces. Do you know how many that is?"

"A lot," said Bodie, maths never having been his strong point.

"If I hear one squad member referring to the incident I'll know where to place the blame," continued Cowley in the same pleasant tone.

Bodie's face dropped.

"I'd forgotten I'd arranged that," admitted Doyle ruefully. "Sorry. Would you rather have a cheque?"

"Not at all. Should our headquarters ever require fortification I'm sure they'll come in useful." said Cowley, rising to his feet.

Correctly interpreting his interrogatory look Doyle said, "You'd better use the toilet upstairs - second door on your left." He looked unhappy at the thought of Cowley wandering around his home without an escort.

Recognising as much the Scot gave a faint smile. "I've been housebroken for years. It's Bodie here you should worry about. I take it you haven't changed your mind?" he added at the door.

"About what?"

"Joining us."

"No," said Doyle shortly, aware Bodie was staring at him. Hardly surprising considering he must have seen my file, he reminded himself.

"Cowley asked you to join up?" exclaimed Bodie as the kitchen door closed behind the Scot.

"Is there any reason why he shouldn't?" snapped Doyle, immediately on the attack.

"One very good one, you were a suspect under a week ago."

"Is that your only objection?"

"Should I have others?"

"You've seen my file."

"As a matter of fact I haven't. I only came back on light duty yesterday. Cowley gave me the potted version on the way over here. Do you object?"

While Doyle did, he didn't feel like explaining why, even to himself. "How would you enjoy a complete stranger rummaging through your past?"

Bodie shrugged. "I'm resigned to it because I work for C15. I won't pretend I like it, or the fact Cowley knows almost all there is to know about me but... He's not such a bad old bastard." Interrupted by a loud gurgling noise he stared down at himself in surprise.

"Don't tell me," Doyle sighed, "you're hungry."

"It's gone nine and I missed lunch," said Bodie defensively, watching with approval as Doyle got up to produce a loaded cheeseboard, french bread and tomatoes. "Have you got any pickle?"

"With brie?" queried Doyle in appalled fascination.

"Snob," accused Bodie, wasting little time before making inroads on the food.

Giving up Doyle produced a jar of pickle, relieved to notice Bodie saved it for the cheddar. Realising he was hungry himself he continued to forage, setting out the sliced ham, half a chicken and some celery he found in the refrigerator.

Upon his return Cowley paused, one eyebrow raised.

"Bodie was hungry," explained Doyle. "Rather than watch him start on the table legs I decided to feed him. I'll get you a plate."

Nodding, Cowley drew up a chair and helped himself to some Lymeswold cheese.

Still peckish, Bodie got up to rummage through Doyle's cupboards, emerging with a large packet of cream crackers to go with the remnants of the various cheeses. Unselfconsciously opening the packet Bodie helped himself before passing it down the table to where Doyle and Cowley sat. Becoming aware he was under surveillance from two pairs of eyes, he had the grace to look a little abashed when he realised what he had done.

"You don't mind?" he asked.

"Would it matter?" Considerably more relaxed, Doyle shared out the last of the scotch. "As I could be dozing off in the third act of Sleeping Beauty about now I'm beginning to think you did me a favour. Fiona likes the ballet," he explained to Bodie with gloom.

"Bad luck, mate," said Bodie, pouting as Doyle beat him to the last piece of chicken.

"It's not all bad. Bad enough though. We were due to call in on her parents so her father could check me out. We wouldn't have got on."

"I doubt it," agreed Cowley. "The Attorney General," he added, seeing Bodie's look of puzzlement.

"She's never the Attorney General," said Bodie, unable to resist it as he crunched into a stick of celery.

"I can see why you're desperate to recruit," Doyle told Cowley. "His daughter," he added severely.

"No," marvelled Bodie.

"Yeah. And a bloody good solicitor in her own right. We steer clear of politics. It took me weeks to get her to agree to mix business with pleasure," Doyle added with a trace of bitterness, "and what happens?"

"We save you from the ballet. You must be desperate to go to that much bother, or is she special?"

"I never had the chance to find out," retorted Doyle acidly.

"Slow. She's certainly a looker," Bodie added generously. "Why is she wasting herself on you?"

"Make some more coffee and stop salivating, she's mine."

"Bet me?" said Bodie with a sudden lick of interest. If he couldn't have Doyle he had nothing against trying to make Doyle's bird.

"You wouldn't be able to afford the stakes," said Cowley, offering a disapproving reminder of his presence.

Exchanging a conspiratorial glance the younger men smiled at each other and set about changing the subject.

 

"I hear you stood Fiona up last night," remarked Sullivan the moment Doyle entered his office.

He groaned. "Don't start, Tony. CI5 paid me an unexpected visit. Would you like the bad news or the really terrible news?" Worrying about the possible repercussions of his involvement with CI5 for Tony Sullivan had kept him awake half the night.

Adept in Doyle-reading after all these years Sullivan's placid demeanour underwent no great change. "Good first."

"CI5 didn't bug my place."

"Then who did?"

"Cowley's going to look into it."

"Is he? What's the bad news?"

"He knows my life history - or the salient details. I've kept Housecalls in the clear as far as I can but he has everything but proof." Doyle gave an unhappy shrug. "Would it help if I resigned? If he keeps digging I could drop you in it up to your neck."

"I need more help, not less with this bloody charity do of Glencairn's up and coming, and I'm not having you slinking out of it. It's in a good cause, Ray."

"I don't give a bugger about Glencairn right now. Did you hear me?"

"I heard you. I'm supposed to be the worrier of this team. If Cowley was going to do anything he would have done it by now. You aren't the only one CI5 checked out. Isobel was quite amused when they approached her. I've had friends ringing me all weekend."

"Oh christ!" Doyle dropped onto the nearest chair. "You should have left me in that bloody sports club," he groaned.

"Cut the self-pitying crap. We're in the clear. I've spoken to Cowley about you and Housecalls. Off the record."

His expression incredulous Doyle's head rose. "Have you lost your mind?"

"I didn't tell him everything of course, but enough," continued Sullivan placidly.

"I don't believe this," moaned Doyle, "senility's set in if you imagine anything is off the record with that canny old bastard."

"Even George Cowley can't wire himself for sound in a sauna," said Sullivan, relieved when Doyle's look of gloom lightened.

"You made him meet you there?"

"It was his suggestion, although I don't think he expected me to take him up on it. I chose the sauna and we went straight there so he wouldn't have had the chance to set the place up."

Remaining unconvinced, Doyle let that pass. "Did you get him off our backs?"

"He wasn't after us, as such. Housecalls has a proven track record, not a whiff of scandal. Besides, we've been legit. for several years now. You know I worked with Cowley briefly, more than twenty years ago it would be. I trusted him then and the stakes were a damn sight higher."

"Not another member of the George Cowley fan club," groaned Doyle with disbelief.

"Who else is?" asked Sullivan with interest.

"Arthur Keeble."

"Yes, I'd heard he'd been in Intelligence back in the Fifties."

Doyle shook his head. "I give up. Cowley asked me to join CI5, did I think to tell you?"

Sullivan's expression sharpened. "When do you ever? What did you say?"

"I'll give you three guesses," said Doyle sourly.

"I know you're not used to being bettered in a deal but you could do worse. It might stop you feeling bored."

"It could stop me feeling anything at all," retorted Doyle.

"You liking the easy life so much. Come off it, Ray."

"I don't fancy the idea of being paid to kill for a living."

"Get off your soapbox. What else?" prompted Sullivan, knowing his Doyle.

"I'm afraid it might come too easily, that I might start enjoying it," snarled Doyle, finally goaded into telling the truth. "Anyway, I don't think there's a need for an organisation like CI5. How many Intelligence agencies do we need? And their powers are too wide, their accountability... Oh, forget it. I said no, end of subject."

"We'll see."

Doyle glared at him.

Sullivan raised his hands in surrender. "It's forgotten. Now we've got that out of the way is there any chance you're going to do any work? Business is booming and this bloody Masque is a job in itself."

About to reply in kind Doyle slowly relaxed, remembering Cowley asking him if he had any enemies and Sullivan's warning after he had bested Glencairn in that deal a few weeks ago.

"I'll see to it," he said with the lack of enthusiasm he knew Sullivan would expect to hear. "As it's for charity."

"If you'll take care of the business I'll - "

"No, I want Glencairn."

"That's what I'm afraid of," said Sullivan dryly.

"Relax, I deserve a little light relief," said Doyle coaxingly. "Glencairn might have to deal with me on any points his lackeys can't handle."

Sullivan dubiously gave his consent.

Satisfied, Doyle set about familiarising himself with the arrangements that had been made to date, wondering how best to infiltrate the evening. Glencairn had never done anything for charity before; whatever was behind the evening, Doyle wanted to know about it.

Inspiration struck two days later while he and Fiona were dining out, Doyle having succeeded in establishing a precarious truce with her. Waiting for the return of his credit card and Fiona, who was in the ladies' room, Doyle idly watched the immaculate white-coated figures of the waiters, wondering which of them had served them so attentively all evening. Only then did it dawn on him that he wouldn't be able to describe the man, the service here prompt, deft and as unobtrusive as was possible. No one ever looked at their waiter; they were a part of the furniture, to be talked through and over. At a function like Glencairn's they would be free to mingle at will, provided they had a tray of drinks in one hand.

His smile blinding as he rose to acknowledge Fiona's return Doyle smiled at the man who returned his credit card, leaving a lavish tip. Taking Fiona back to her flat and staying for more than coffee, even while they made love a small detached portion of Doyle's brain was busy fine-honing his plan of campaign. He made no demur when Fiona indicated she preferred to sleep alone and let him out of her luxurious flat just after two the following morning.

 

Robert's look of horrified disbelief was a radical change from his normal expression of bland attentiveness as Doyle outlined his plan to join Robert's select band of professionals.

"It can't be done, Mr Doyle. I've got my reputation to think of," he said severely.

"Even I can't ruin that in one night," said Doyle persuasively.

"Don't you believe it. It isn't a job a novice can walk into, not at this level. What might do for Pizza Hut won't do for Housecalls, or me. Years it takes," Robert protested, so appalled he reverted to the accents of South London rather than the liquid Neapolitan tones he usually affected.

"Robert, trust me. I'm a quick study. Just teach me how to carry a tray of drinks without dropping them, that's all."

"All," sniffed Robert. "By when?" he added with suspicion.

"Saturday night. For the Glencairn Masque."

"Saturday! Forget it. It can't be done."

"That's what a friend of mine claimed. I told him it could, with the right training. From the best there is," added Doyle, laying it on thick, knowing Robert too well to think bribery or threats would have the slightest effect. Robert was an acknowledged expert in his field, his skills in high demand. Housecalls needed Robert far more than Robert needed Housecalls, only loyalty and his love of variety keeping him with the agency all these years. Eyeing his prey, Doyle added lightly, "Of course, if you don't think you could teach me I could always have a word with Raphael Sa - "

"Christened Pete Huggins, he was, and you know it. The only thing he could teach you is how to walk like a constipated hippo," said Robert with a fine contempt for his nearest rival. "I didn't say I couldn't bu... You're cutting it a bit fine and I'm booked solid tomorrow. Why does it 'ave to be the Glencairn do?"

"Because my friend will be one of the guests and our bet is that I can serve him a drink without him recognising me," lied Doyle glibly.

Robert lit another Woodbine, eyeing the younger man as he would any potential recruit.

"Show us your hands."

Doyle extended them, turning them palm upwards when requested to. Then he walked across the room, balanced an empty tray on one hand and listened to Robert's unsparing strictures thereafter. His next attempt was a marginal improvement on his first.

"What do you think?" he asked, his head cocked, his expression hopeful.

"That it'll take a bloody miracle to get you in any kind of shape in time. There's no denying you'll be a challenge. But you're a quick study, I'll give you that much. Is it a big bet you've got on?"

"Very. Naturally you'll be in for half of it. But it's not so much the money as the fact it's a needle match."

"Ah, like that, is it. Okay, suppose I do waste the next thirty-six hours trainin' you not to drop anything while doin' the Wembley two step - this friend of yours is goin' to be lookin' out for you. You'll stand out a mile. None of my staff are allowed to go round with 'air like that." He gave Doyle's riotous curls a disapproving look. 

"I've thought of that. I've got a wig and a moustache to wear. Glasses too."

Robert gave a snort of disbelief. "This is some needle match."

"You're right," said Doyle, making no attempt to hide the predatory light in his eyes, always having got on well with Robert.

"There's more to this than you're telling me."

"Yes. It would mean a lot to me, Bob. But I need help, the best there is."

"Save the flannel for them that need it," Robert advised him. "Nearly twenty years I've spent in the business. You'll 'ave to work."

"Like a navvy," Doyle promised him fervently.

"Time will tell. Only way to learn is on the job. You're in luck. Tomorrow I've got a lunch, afternoon tea and a dinner. You'll be coming out with me on all of 'em. I'm free tonight. You'd best come round to my place - six o'clock - and I'll put you through your paces. If you do all right you'll be with us tomorrow and Saturday, if not, forget it. Fair enough?"

"It's a deal," said Doyle, mentally wondering what he had let himself in for and how he was going to explain his absence from the office tomorrow to an overworked Tony Sullivan.

 

Two a.m. Saturday morning, having been on his feet for over sixteen hours and walked what felt like hundreds of miles, Doyle was a shadow of his former self. Slumped on a kitchen chair, his throbbing feet in a bowl of water, one hand in the small of his aching back, he made a mental vow to be more generous with his tips next time he ate out. Aware he would have to be up at six for yet another intensive crash course with Robert before the Masque, Doyle crawled off to bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

 

Eyeing the men and women in his charge for the next eight hours, Robert's lecture was short and to the point. He paid the sallow, mousy-haired man in the back row no more attention than any of the others as he inspected their uniforms, straightening a bow-tie here and a frill there. His hands sweating heavily in his pristine white gloves, his arches already feeling as if they had suffered a total collapse, Doyle's expression remained one of bland attentiveness, avoiding any direct eye contact during the ensuing lecture from Glencairn's personal assistant or Robert's encouraging wink as they dispersed to begin their duties.

For the first hour Doyle was too busy concentrating on mastering the tricks of his new trade to do much but keep Glencairn in view. Having successfully served an uncomfortable-looking Tony Sullivan a drink without being recognised, Doyle's confidence improved and he felt able to take in more of what was going on around him.

By midnight the marquee was thronging with expensively dressed couples, the subtly lit water gardens providing traps for the unwary. The open house was equally busy and there seemed to be far more than five hundred people present. Working harder than at any time in his life, learning even as he served drinks from the expertise of those around him, Doyle even found the opportunity to make use of the small camera he was carrying, purchased from a firm specialising in industrial espionage. At no point in the evening did he lose sight of Glencairn although he was relieved to see Tony leave after the first hour, aware his partner had attended the Masque only as a personal favour to one of the directors of the children's charity which was to benefit from the evening. Doyle knew none of the other attendees personally although he recognised a few: ageing rock stars with nymphets in tow, the poverty-stricken end of London Society and a sprinkling of so-called personalities. Unusually, there wasn't a politician in sight. Doyle was not surprised, aware Glencairn's reputation would have deterred even the most foolhardy from attending. If the Masque had been a late bid by Glencairn to rectify his tarnished image it had failed - there was no one present with sufficient cachet; if it was being held to mask a more sinister purpose, that purpose continued to elude Doyle although many of the so-called guests looked both out of place and ill at ease, their muscled bodies packed uncomfortably in dinner jackets, their fists almost swamping the champagne glasses. Wondering how many of them had criminal records, Doyle kept his eyes lowered, the champagne flowing and took as many photographs as he could.

By two a.m. Doyle became aware that some of the more dubious-looking guests were abandoning their wives and mistresses to drift in the direction of the house for what looked like a pre-arranged meeting. Glencairn gave no sign of joining them, continuing to mingle with his guests, his two aides never far from his side. When at last he headed for the house Doyle abandoned his duties in the marquee to follow him, collecting up the laden tray of glasses he had hidden amongst the exotic growth sprouting in an unlikely fashion from a revolting statue of a smirking cherub for that very purpose, relieved to discover it had been neither raided nor dive-bombed by suicidal flies.

Once in the house surveillance became more difficult, the meeting taking place in the ballroom behind closed doors. Arriving in time to see Glencairn enter a room on the opposite side of the imposing hallway after an aide hurried up to him, Doyle loitered outside in the protective covering offered by some over-luxuriant palms and grasses. He could see Glencairn in the shadow of the half-open door, obviously listening to someone, his expression one of intense displeasure.

Sliding the tiny camera out of a concealing pocket Doyle began to take some more photographs, willing Glencairn and his mysterious companion to emerge into view. When eventually they did so Glencairn's guest proved to be a man in his early fifties, dressed in a style more suited to a man twenty years younger; he was tucking a fat envelope inside the breast pocket of his jacket.

"...no need to take that attitude, old son. Don't worry, I'm just off now I've got what I came for."

"Make sure you are. Never come here again. It was madness for you to do this," finished Glencairn in an angry undertone Doyle had to strain to catch.

"Don't be like that," said the man with spurious bonhomie, his eyes cold. "Who'll notice one man in this mob?"

"You aren't being paid to jeopardise my position."

"Then maybe next time you'll remember I expect prompt payment for services rendered," said the man, passing Glencairn.

Hearing footsteps behind him Doyle was forced to tuck his camera away, pick up his tray and retreat before he could be spotted. Pausing to offer a magenta-clad matron a drink, aware that the tray was shaking slightly, Doyle took a deep breath, hoping the base makeup he was wearing to darken his usual skin tone wasn't running.

 

It was five a.m. when Doyle finally arrived home, his first priority being to remove his shoes, his second to dispose of the wig, his hair clumped in sweaty, noisome ringlets to his scalp. The moustache and makeup came off in the shower.

The evening had been humid, tension making the heat seem even worse. Limp with exhaustion, his hair still dripping, Doyle fell into bed with a disgruntled sigh. Sleep refused to come, sights and sounds of the evening returning, all the more frustrating because none of them had brought him any closer to bringing Glencairn down. Something had obviously been going on but he hadn't been able to get into that meeting to discover what. Or to remember why the middle-aged swinger who had angered Glencairn should seem familiar. On the edge of sleep the memory abruptly returned. Sitting bolt upright Doyle left the bed to draw back the curtains, watching the dawn sky. 

Glencairn helping CI5 was an unlikely prospect; Glencairn bribing a rotten apple seemed all too probable in view of what he had overheard. It might also explain how Glencairn had managed to elude the authorities time after time. If one member of CI5 was corrupt there could be more, including George Cowley. 

Aware he had stumbled across something too big to handle himself, and moreover something potentially very dangerous, Doyle padded down to the kitchen and made himself some tea. Sitting at the table, his aching feet resting on another chair, his tea grew cold as he considered his options. Silence was definitely the most attractive given the risks involved. After ten minutes or so he reached for the telephone to make the first of two calls.

 

His stubble a salt and pepper glint on his chin and looking less dapper than was his wont Cowley found the door to Arthur Keeble's large Blackheath home opening before he had the opportunity to ring the bell.

"I trust there's a damn good reason for calling me out of bed at a quarter to seven on a Sunday morning," he said acidly. "As you can see, I wasted no time getting here."

Looking even more rumpled than Cowley, Keeble closed the front door. "Why on earth should you expect that? This way, and for heaven's sake keep your voice down, Emily's trying to get some sleep."

"Quite why you should regard it as imperative I should meet you here in this hole in corner fashion I can't imagine." Entering the comfortable sitting room Cowley came to an abrupt standstill as he saw a familiar figure slouched on the sofa. "I should have known," he sighed. "Arthur, I'm sorry but you were so damned mysterious on the phone. Good morning, Mr Doyle."

"I had little alternative in the circumstances," said Keeble testily. "Your young lady on Control or whatever it's called, while very efficient, was less than helpful. As she refused to put me through to you I had no option but to leave that oblique message. You came alone and told none of your staff?"

"I did, and it contradicts every security procedure in the book," said Cowley grimly. "May I know why?"

"It's my fault, Mr Cowley," said Doyle, sitting a little straighter. "I needed to speak with you urgently without alerting any of your staff. I gathered from our previous meeting that you would trust Mr Keeble enough not only to agree to meet him but without question."

"I suppose I should be flattered," remarked Keeble to no one in particular.

"You'll feel something else entirely if one of you doesn't get to the point. You're a poor host, Arthur."

Despite his evident tension Doyle grinned at the expression which crossed Keeble's face.

"I don't stock malt," he said with asperity. "Would you settle for a Remy Martin? Knowing you, it wasn't tea you had in mind."

"If I must."

"Ray?"

"Tea, please. I wouldn't want Mr Cowley to think I was drunk."

"And why should I think that?" asked Cowley, making himself comfortable in one of the large easy chairs opposite Doyle. "You have something to tell me?"

"When Arthur returns," said Doyle, cursing his inconvenient memory and the nagging conscience that had prompted him to arrange this meeting against his better judgement.

"And here he is," said Cowley as the lawyer returned with a pot of tea, two mugs, milk, sugar and a glass all squashed on a tray, the bottle of brandy precariously tucked under one arm. Rising, Cowley rescued the latter.

"You'd be better off having tea," Keeble told him.

"I'd be better still asleep. I didn't get to bed until five."

"Night on the town?" asked Doyle irreverently.

"I might ask you the same thing," replied Cowley, warming his brandy before taking a small sip.

Aware of his debauched-looking state Doyle gave a wry grimace but for all his inclined-to-be-heavy eyelids there was nothing sleepy about him when he said, "Before I give you certain information I should like to establish a couple of points. Mr Keeble's integrity is, I take it, beyond reproach?"

"No one's integrity is that."

"Thank you," said Keeble dryly, forestalling Doyle, who closed his mouth on an angry retort.

Cowley shrugged. "It's a realistic answer."

"And you trusted me enough to come straight here," added Keeble. "That speaks for itself I think."

"I've asked him to remain here as a witness to what I'm about to tell you. Not in his capacity as my solicitor but as a respected member of the community whose reputation carries weight in certain circles," continued Doyle without expression.

"I see. Please continue."

"I have a set of photographs to give you, the negatives of which are already in the strongroom of a reputable firm of solicitors unconnected with and unknown to Mr Keeble. They have certain instructions in the event of my disappearance or demise for whatever reason in the next five years."

Cowley took the announcement calmly. "I take it these photographs compromise me in some way."

Taken aback, Doyle stared at him. "You?"

"Or CI5. Or are you always this paranoid?"

"Only when I'm dealing with one of the Intelligence services," snapped Doyle. "I've no intention of becoming an interesting statistic because I proved to be an embarrassment to CI5!"

"Ray, I don't think - "

"That's all right, Arthur. So the photographs concern CI5 and you have taken the precaution of hiding the negatives to prevent CI5 from trying to cover up the story."

"Yes."

"Then it's to be hoped you are in the best of health. Could you get to the point?"

"Is CI5 interested in nobbling Glencairn?"

Lack of sleep and the unexpected question prevented Cowley from being able to mask the extent of his interest. "We are."

"Thought you might be. So am I. I attended the Masque he gave last night."

"How the devil did you manage that?" exclaimed Cowley, having tried and failed to infiltrate the event with any of his staff. "Wait a minute, weren't Housecalls arranging it for him?"

"Some aspects of it," agreed Doyle. "I was a waiter for the evening. It gave me the chance to move around without being noticed. I took as many photos as I could. Six in particular should interest you." Tossing them over he watched Cowley's expression change as he looked through them.

"I was right then, that bloke is CI5," he said at last, breaking the silence that had fallen.

Cowley said nothing. His eyes blazing into Doyle's, he didn't need to.

"I wasn't in any position to hear more than snatches of conversation at the end," Doyle added, repeating verbatim what he had heard.

His tea and Cowley's brandy sat forgotten as the older man examined him with a meticulous attention to detail.

"You'll need a telephone," said Keeble practically. "You can be private in my study - the last door on the right."

"Thank you. Mr Doyle, how did you know this man," Cowley tapped the photograph he held, "worked for CI5?"

"I didn't at first, only that I'd seen him before. He was with you that day I came in to give my statement. You were talking in the doorway for a moment before you came into the office alone."

Tracing the memory, Cowley nodded. "Aye. You have excellent recall. It may save a number of lives. Arthur, if you'll excuse me I'll take up your offer. Mr Doyle, I should like you to accompany me back to CI5 - if you will?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Can you guarantee his safety there?" interjected Keeble briskly.

Cowley paused in the doorway. "Yes to both questions."

"Do you believe him?" Doyle asked as the Scot left the room.

"Oh yes," nodded Keeble. "The one thing Cowley values above everything else is CI5's good name."

"That's what worries me," said Doyle. "Bloody hell, I should have - "

" - acted exactly as you have done," Keeble told him firmly. "You won't be in any danger from George, nor from CI5's traitor now."

"Unless the man has friends we don't know about," said Doyle.

"You're wasted as a civilian," remarked Cowley returning in time to hear that. "You think like one of us."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

The Scot's mouth thinned. "In the circumstances I suppose not," he conceded heavily.

"What happens now?" asked Keeble practically.

"CI5 looks after its own. I've three teams working on the case as of five minutes ago."

"Is that wise?" asked Keeble.

"It's imperative. If we lose our good reputation we lose everything. CI5 cleans its own doorstep. We don't," Cowley added, turning to Doyle, "sweep the rubbish under the mat. Before I can move in on Martin I need to know exactly what he's working on for Glencairn and how long it's been going on."

"Barry Martin?" said Keeble, sounding shocked. "We're talking about Barry?"

"We are. Dammit, Arthur he's my number two! I trusted him as I trusted no one else. Not that it need concern you," he said, regaining control of his temper so completely it seemed impossible that he could have lost it.

"I'd debate that," said Doyle with a hint of aggression.

Cowley swung round and for a split second Doyle knew a very real fear before the older man relaxed with a grimace. "In the circumstances you have every right to. Disseminating information isn't a speciality of mine, rather the opposite in fact. If you could bring yourself to set aside your prejudice against the Intelligence services I've no doubt you'll concede it isn't always in the public interest to make certain facts public. I should like to get your statement on tape. Naturally any other details you can offer about the evening, however slight, may speed our investigations into both Martin and Glencairn."

"Do you like Martin?" asked Doyle.

"On a personal level? No. We have little in common except the work we do. Arthur and I both knew him in Korea."

"Bloody hell," said Doyle, looking from one man to the other.

"I don't care for him on a personal level," remarked Keeble, his shrewd gaze on his client, "but like George I trusted him. I haven't set eyes on him for thirty-five years. In fact I didn't even know he was a part of CI5."

Doyle pulled a rueful face. "Was I that obvious?"

"A little. I began to fear that my windows might not remain intact when you tried to escape. George, I have facilities for taping here and can offer you a room where you won't be disturbed. I think Mr Doyle might feel safer on neutral territory rather than at CI5 headquarters."

Cowley's look of honest surprise was all the lawyer had been hoping for. "Surely you don't imagine - ?"

"Are you going to tell me people in CI5 custody have never disappeared?" said Doyle.

"No," said Cowley, adding after a moment, "But they have all been members of one of the Intelligence services in similar circumstances to Barry. Few of them have been British," he offered.

"Which of course makes everything all right," said Doyle, disconcerted by his inclination to trust the Scot. "If I hadn't gone to Basingstoke that day I could be living a normal life," he added to no one in particular.

Cowley found time for a faint, understanding smile. "You will again."

"Can I have that in writing? You'd better have this," Doyle added, fishing under one of the cushions of the sofa to produce a four-inch thick folder. "I've had a team of private detectives watching Glencairn for some time now. This contains copies of all the surveillance reports - dates, names, photos. None of the names or faces meant anything exciting to us although some of them have police records. Maybe some will mean something to you. There's certainly another picture of Martin somewhere near the beginning although I didn't know who he was at the time. Glencairn sees a lot of people one way and another. I couldn't afford to have them all traced and identified."

Having taken the folder from him Cowley was already flicking through the dossier, his eyes narrowing with recognition on more than one occasion. Conscious of the silence, he looked up.

"Thank you. This is more valuable than you could know. It's fortunate for the safety of those detectives you hired that a couple of these men weren't investigated in depth. Never mind that now, I must be gone. Arthur, thank you again. I needn't remind you of the need for - "

"I've heard and seen nothing, George. I hope everything turns out for the best."

"Whose, I wonder," murmured Cowley cryptically. "Mr Doyle, would you drive me back to CI5? I should like the opportunity to read this and my time is going to be limited. You'll appreciate that the number of staff working on this investigation will be small until I can be certain Martin was working alone."

Abruptly given a small insight into how much that admission cost the older man, and with the unaccustomed feeling of being overtaken by events, Doyle meekly took the car keys Cowley handed him and left, given time for no more than a nod of thanks to Arthur Keeble.

Taken straight to Cowley's office via some narrow side stairs, Doyle's debriefing was interrupted at regular intervals by telephone calls and visitors. He grew quite adept at disappearing into the bathroom adjoining Cowley's office each time there was a knock at the door. The fourth time he found himself in the plain, functional room he gave up and had a bath in an attempt to keep himself awake.

He recovered consciousness to find the water cold and Cowley glaring at him. "If you imagine I have nothing better to do than waste my time - Och, dry yourself. When did you last eat?"

"Yesterday morning, I think. You can't have any more questions," said Doyle with a groan.

"Only a few. There are some photographs I should like you to look at. With your powers of recall you may be able to put some more names to Glencairn's guest list."

"There were certainly more than five hundred people there," agreed Doyle, hauling himself out of the bath. "But as I've said, Glencairn's people were responsible for the guest list and for security. I've never seen anything like it. I swear they were all armed."

"Tell me," commanded Cowley, seating himself on the closed lid of the toilet bowl.

With a sense of inevitability Doyle began to talk again while he dried himself and dressed. He revived with the advent of coffee and sandwiches, studying photographs while he ate, aware that Cowley, seemingly tireless, was on the telephone or RT the whole time. By mid-afternoon, feeling mentally gutted, Doyle learnt he was free to go.

"However, for your own protection I should like to place you in CI5 custody. From what you've told me it's obvious Glencairn has cause to believe he has a score to settle with you. While we had no success in tracing the purchaser of the surveillance devices found at your house there can be little doubt he was behind them."

"I did wonder," Doyle admitted, too tired to care by this time.

"I'm sure you did," said Cowley dryly. "Then perhaps you'll agree that Glencairn may have grown impatient and might seek other means of revenging himself on you. You're too vulnerable in your own home. Your safety can be assured in one of our safe houses until this investigation has been concluded."

Doyle gave him a bleary-eyed look of dislike, resenting the fact that a man twice his age should look as fresh as the proverbial daisy while he felt like death warmed over. "And how long is that likely to take?"

"I'm no prophet but from the progress of our investigations I would hope no longer than a week at most."

"Oh wonderful."

"Good, then it's settled. One of my men will take you straight there."

"I need some things from home," protested Doyle.

"Clothes and other personal items will be provided for you. I think you'll find you'll be comfortable enough."

Doyle gave him a look of disbelief but forbore to argue the point until he had had some sleep.

"Wait here, I'll send your escort in as soon as he's free."

Finding himself alone in Cowley's office Doyle headed straight for the unobtrusive couch and stretched out. He awoke to find Bodie staring at him.

"What the hell have you been up to now?"

"Don't ask," yawned Doyle.

"I just did. Cowley said you'd explain once I'd got you safely tucked away. You look terrible," Bodie added frankly.

Sticking two fingers up at him Doyle left the couch, stretching stiffly. "I'll tell you anything you like after I've had a decent kip," he promised rashly, his eyelids already closing.

"I might hold you to that," said Bodie before he slid into his professional persona, aware Cowley didn't waste CI5's time and money without very good cause. "If you'd like to come with me, please."

Doyle made a show of checking behind him to see who Bodie was talking to.

"Stop mucking about and shift your arse," said Bodie in a more familiar tone. "The sooner you've had a sleep the sooner you'll be coherent enough to explain what the hell's going on. Oh, one thing before we leave here."

Hearing the change of tone Doyle looked up, his own expression sobering as he saw Bodie's face.

"If I tell you to do something, do it first and we'll argue about it later. Sieves make lousy witnesses, okay?"

"Tactfully put but I get the message."

"Good." For all Bodie's flippancy Doyle was very aware that the other man's attention was on everything but himself as they left Cowley's office.

"You really think someone's after me?" he asked as they made their way down the narrow stone staircase, far from the lifts or main stairwell, meeting no one on the way.

Bodie paused for a moment, studying his companion. "Cowley does," he said finally, "and when he worries, I worry."

"He didn't tell me that," said Doyle, his voice muffled as he was bundled into the back of the delivery van waiting with its doors open.

"He wouldn't," said Bodie, already gunning the engine. "Stay back there out of sight. You're in CI5 protective custody and therefore a delicate flower."

"So why did you tell me?" asked Doyle, giving a grunt of discomfort as his ribs collided with the unyielding corner of a box when the van took a corner too fast.

"Sorry. Because I know you better than Cowley does. How come you're so tired?"

"One way or another I've only had about six hours' sleep in three days. Don't tell me, in CI5 you run on batteries, right?" It didn't occur to Doyle to refute Bodie's claim to know him, in fact he took it for granted. 

"Close," agreed Bodie cheerfully. "Stay awake for another ten minutes and you won't need to wake up till morning."

Bustled from the van, up more stairs and in through a solid oak door, Doyle had no chance to take note of his surroundings. Showing no interest in the décor of the flat, he made a beeline for the bedroom, peeling off clothing as he went. He still had one sock and his shirt on when he fell asleep on top of the bed, which was where Bodie found him ten minutes later.

Pausing in the doorway Bodie gave a faint grin, tucked the free portion of the duvet over him, and set about securing the flat to his own satisfaction.

 

"Barry Martin," repeated Bodie, his consternation betrayed by the fact his meal remained untouched on his plate.

"Friend of yours, was he?" asked Doyle, more his acidic self after seven hours' sound sleep and a meal.

"Was?" Bodie's expression sharpened. Doyle forgot the image of the irreverent clown who ate him out of house and home and began to believe Cowley's statement that Bodie was one of his best men.

"Sorry. I'm taking it for granted his career will be over."

"He'll be lucky if that's all he has to worry about," said Bodie grimly. "Barry's one of the best in the business. Christ, the old man will have taken this hard. Even he trusted Barry and he doesn't trust anyone. Barry saw me through my induction course. We've had the occasional beer together. I thought he . . . But he's on the take," he finished, his voice devoid of emotion now.

"It doesn't happen often then?"

"No it bloody doesn't. This is the first time I've ever heard of it happening. I suppose there's no chance of a mistake?"

Doyle just looked at him. "First time?" he echoed.

"Yes."

A scalding blue gaze licking over him Doyle gave a grimace of what could be taken for apology before he left the table to pour Bodie a drink.

"Not while I'm on duty."

"One can't hurt," said Doyle in surprise.

"No? Where have you been all your life? Listen, sunshine, it's time someone broadened your education. I know CI5's all one big joke to you - big brother wasting the tax-payer's money - but it isn't like that. What it is like is that you could end up very dead if I screw up. I don't like screwing up. I'd like it even less if I get killed or invalided out for someone who's too bloody pig-headed to recognise danger when it hits him over the head."

About to reply in kind, Doyle paused. While he had been afraid for himself, it hadn't occurred to him that anyone else would be at risk because of him. The thought held no appeal, holding even less when he realised it would be Bodie at risk.

"Can't say I'd be too happy myself," he conceded. "Sorry, I hadn't thought things through. I'm not used to all this cloak and dagger stuff."

Satisfied his judgement about Doyle's level-headedness had been correct, Bodie relaxed a little. "I know. That's what I'm here for. Lecture's over now."

"That's a relief but you needn't worry, I do know how to defend myself so - "

"Forget it, Ray," said Bodie without condescension. "It won't come to that. Cowley's got a couple of people keeping an eye outside as well - though they don't know why or who. You'll be safe enough, we'll see to that. If anything happens you hit the floor and stay there till I tell you otherwise."

Doyle gave him a look of impatience. "It didn't occur to me I wouldn't be. I was just trying to let you know - Bloody hell, if you want to protect me, go ahead. It must be great for the ego."

"Oh, it is," Bodie agreed, belatedly attacking his cold lasagne, very aware of being under surveillance.

"Why do you work for CI5?"

"Because I want to," replied Bodie, his cool gaze warning Doyle off.

"Enjoy killing people, do you?"

For a moment it was a moot point whether Bodie lost his formidable temper and replied in kind; then he spotted the gleam in Doyle's eyes and realised the question had been deliberately offensive.

"Sometimes it's a pleasure." His lasagne finished, he helped himself to an apple from the bowl in the centre of the table.

"And other times?"

Yet to fathom out Doyle's motive, Bodie concentrated on his apple. "Other times it isn't." He saw Doyle give a discontented frown and waited uneasily for the next question.

"Why do you do the job?" asked Doyle, his gaze pinning Bodie where he sat.

Certain it enabled Doyle to see straight into his skull Bodie conquered his anger. "Pay's wonderful."

"Don't give me that. I'm serious. I want to know, Bodie."

"So you might. It doesn't mean I'm going to tell you."

"I didn't mean to sound... I don't understand you, or what this damn job does to you. It isn't one you walk away from at the end of the day," he added with certainty, having learnt that Bodie's often bleak humour was a camouflage and wanting to know the man behind it.

Realising Doyle's quest for knowledge was quite genuine and that, despite his earlier comments, there was nothing judgmental in his manner, Bodie's glare eased as he wondered what was going on in the other man's convoluted brain. "Not if you want to stay alive."

"You risk your life every day."

"It's a way of reminding yourself you are alive," said Bodie, surprising himself by offering his companion the truth.

"Aren't you afraid?"

"All the time. That's another way of knowing you're alive."

"You could have something there," admitted Doyle.

"You like a challenge yourself, don't you? Flying, gliding, climbing, diving, shooting, rally driving. Why?" He saw Doyle's expression freeze and grimaced. "Ah, so it's all right for you to ask questions but I'm not allowed, is that it? You're a danger junkie, same as me."

"No. Well, maybe." There was a rueful note in Doyle's voice by the time he said, "Probably. As you said, it's a way of knowing you're alive. Besides, I'm good at them."

"When this is all over we must have a workout. McCabe said you're good, pro good. He should know."

"I can't be that good, he took me out." It was clear the memory still rankled.

Bodie didn't try to hide his grin. "Considering you'd been giving Juliet Richardson your all a few minutes beforehand my granny could have done as much."

"Very likely. I don't hit old ladies."

"You might if you joined CI5," said Bodie lazily. "We'll see how you do against me.

About to take up the challenge, Doyle's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Did Cowley put you up to this?"

"Up to what?" Appreciating what Doyle meant, Bodie shook his head. "Cowley does his own asking. You could do worse than join up."

"Like the dole?" said Doyle, getting up to make some tea.

 

Watching the pacing figure, aware that if Doyle had a tail he would be lashing it, Bodie found it easier to contain his own impatience with their incarceration.

"Damn it, how much longer do we have to stay cooped up in this fucking hole?"

"Until Cowley says you can leave it."

"Cowley says," mimicked Doyle, wheeling round. "Can't you think for yourself?"

"If you're spoiling for a fight go talk to yourself in the mirror," Bodie advised him. "I'm too busy to play."

"You're - " Biting off what he had been about to say Doyle headed for the hall. "I've had enough of this, I'm going home."

"Don't make me stop you."

The unemphatic warning spun Doyle back into the room, his expression one of incredulous fury.

"Stop me? Who the fuck do you think you're - ?"

"You're twenty-eight, not eight. Bit old for tantrums. So you're bored. So am I. It'll pass and it's better than being dead." Bodie was grateful some of the squad weren't here to listen to him advocating patience. "We're not holding you here for the fun of it but because you're a vital witness. You get killed, we lose a nail in Martin's coffin. And Glencairn's."

It was so quiet he could hear the other man's angry rasps for air. He watched Doyle subdue his temper with a well concealed relief. While he knew he could have made good his promise to stop Doyle he wouldn't have enjoyed doing it. Besides, physical proximity was the last thing he wanted after three days closeted with the man.

He knew he was too aware of Ray Doyle as a sexual entity: the easy grace of his walk, the sweet definition of his genitals, the delicious under-curve of buttock; his aggressive manner and those mutable sea-change eyes.

"Couldn't we at least go outside and get some fresh air?" said Doyle, not looking at Bodie.

"Too risky. You can get plenty of exercise indoors if you want it."

Having spent three frustrating days watching Bodie watch him and fighting his urge to make the first move, Doyle was in a state of highly charged sexual tension, lust, propinquity and the ever-present fear for his life all contributing factors. He heard Bodie out with disbelief, all too aware it wasn't sex Bodie had in mind. Am I losing my touch, he wondered suddenly, or just my mind? Neither possibility did much to soothe his temper.

"Forget it," he snapped, resuming his pacing around the room, knowing better after three days in Bodie's company than to pass in front of the windows.

"What you need - "

"What I don't need is a pep-talk!"

" - is a bloody clip round the ear. Carry on like this and you'll get one."

Doyle had never backed away from a challenge in his life, his stance altering almost imperceptibly. "If you think you can manage it."

On his feet, the crackle of the RT returned Bodie to sanity. He moved into the other room to take the call in private.

"Well?" demanded Doyle when he returned.

"Marriott's coming up with fresh food and some books," said Bodie colourlessly. "He said it should only be another couple of days."

With a sound of impatience Doyle resumed his stalking but when the front door bell rang he moved, unasked, into his bedroom, not so irritable that he had forgotten Bodie's casually voiced pledge that a potential killer reached him only through Bodie.

 

Watching Marriott leave with some regret, feeling his prison close in on him once more, Doyle collected up the bags of goods the man had brought with him and, for want of anything else to do, took them into the kitchen and began putting the stuff away.

"You don't need to do that," said Bodie from the doorway."

"I need to do something, this is as good as anything else. I'm sorry for - " Doyle gave an apologetic grimace. "I'm used to looking after myself and I don't like being told what to do," he added gruffly, never having found it easy to apologise.

"I'd never have guessed. Look on the bright side, at least we won't starve. You could always do the cooking if you're bored," said Bodie, who had already exhausted his own culinary repertoire.

"Gosh, thanks." Putting butter in the refrigerator Doyle paused, realising it had been a genuine attempt to keep him occupied rather than the condescension he had taken it for. "I've been that bad?" he asked wryly.

"Bloody diabolical," said Bodie with truth. "And Cowley gets very peeved if we beat up the good guys. How did you come to be involved with Glencairn in the first place?"

"Read my report," said Doyle, freezing him out once more. "I've been through it all every way but backwards with Cowley. I don't intend to go through it again for your benefit."

Familiar enough with Doyle by now to sense there was more behind that refusal than bloody-mindedness Bodie let it rest, trying a different tack.

"You hired private investigators to check him out."

"Leave it," said Doyle, a note of warning in his voice. 

"Okay," said Bodie equably. "What do you fancy doing then?" He tried not to dwell on what he would like to be doing with Doyle.

"Does it matter?"

"Watch TV? Read? Video? Play cards? Talk? Arm-wrestle? Ludo?"

Fighting the grin twitching at his mouth, Doyle turned away, holding on to his anger because that way he could deal with the itch in his groin. "What I'd like is a return to normality with no CI5 buggering up my life."

"I know what you mean, believe it or not. Cowley will see you're okay."

Leaning down, Doyle reopened the fridge, took out two cans of lager and tossed one to Bodie. "I've got no doubts on that score. I made sure he doesn't have any option."

"You did? Wish I'd been there. You wouldn't care to pass on the secret of your success, would you? We've been trying for years."

Suspecting mockery, on edge and unsettled by the lure of the man too close to him, Doyle gave a slow stretch of flagrant sexuality, aware of the eyes which feasted on his every move before he subjected Bodie to a lingering, sultry survey.

"That's easy. All you have to do is fuck your way through half the government," he murmured. He watched with amusement as an obviously discomfited Bodie left the kitchen.

 

Having spent two hours expending some of his excess energy in a relentless régime of push-ups and exercise, Doyle came to a halt to find Bodie propped in the doorway of his bedroom, watching him.

"Feel better now?" Bodie asked.

"I would if I could go for a run. What's for dinner?"

"Whatever you like. I've done my share of the cooking, tonight it's up to you. There's a match on the box later."

"Football?" Doyle checked.

"What else is there worth watching?"

"It could have been rugby."

"Do me a favour," said Bodie, looking pained. "It's Liverpool and Manchester City."

Stripping off his sweat-dampened top and drying off his torso with it, Doyle paused. "Don't tell me, you're a Liverpool fan, right?"

"How d'you guess?"

"It was inevitable. I support Everton."

"That figures. Never mind, maybe you'll grow out of it," said Bodie comfortingly, which remark not surprisingly prompted a lively debate on the merits of the two rival teams.

Unwilling to concede defeat Doyle tossed his balled-up sweatshirt at Bodie and headed for the shower but he frowned as he cleaned himself, wondering why the argument should have seemed so familiar.

 

Watching the expressive set of the other man's back after he had replaced the telephone receiver, Doyle knew enough of Bodie by this time not to push.

"It's over," announced Bodie, still without turning. "Martin's dead, Glencairn's dead and a lot of small fry are in custody singing like canaries. It seems we forget to allow for a marked card in the deck."

"In what way?" asked Doyle, slow to accept that Glencairn could be dead, having lived with his hatred of the man and all he represented for too long.

"Cowley gave me clearance to tell you. For your ears only." When Bodie said nothing more, Doyle confirmed,

"My ears only."

"The thieves fell out. We'd been trying to tie Glencairn in to the cocaine flooding London for months. A week ago one of the Bulgarians decided he liked life in the decadent west and offered information for a new ID. Because he could offer stuff we wanted he would probably have got it. He was coming down from Aberdeen on Monday on the train - his own idea of remaining inconspicuous. He picked the wrong taxi. Martin was driving - we've had confirmation from another three passengers and a porter. As soon as Cowley heard that, CI5 moved in before MI6 could bollocks things up completely - our Bulgarian friend was dead by now, of course. The teams got to Glencairn's house about ten minutes after Martin had shot Glencairn."

"Why should Martin do that?"

Bodie turned then, his expression blank. "From what Glencairn's men overheard, because Martin had realised Cowley was on his trail and wanted a quick route out of the country. Glencairn had his own private plane - a six-seater - but declined to put Martin on it. So Martin shot him."

"How very convenient for CI5," said Doyle, who believed none of what he had been told.

"I shouldn't mention that to Cowley if you see him," said Bodie colourlessly. "There was a lot of shooting before our lot cleared the house. We lost a man to Martin. The fucker killed one of his own. Cowley took him out in the end."

Staring at the chiselled perfection of Bodie's face Doyle could think of nothing to say, given a fleeting glimpse of the loyalty that bound the disparate members of CI5 to each other.

"Why would Glencairn refuse to get him out of the country? He must have known Martin could shop him," he said at last.

"Not if he was dead. Glencairn was armed, but he couldn't know how fast Martin was," said Bodie, his voice all cold control once more. "Anyway, your part in this fiasco is over. We'll be busy for months tying up the loose ends. You name it, Glencairn seems to have had a finger in it. I'll run you home before I go in. It's a wrap here."

Bodie's disinterested tone was the final slap in the face, Doyle having deluded himself into believing he and Bodie had begun the first tentative stages of an acquaintance that would endure. Now he found himself facing a detached stranger. Never needing to be told anything twice, his reaction to that rejection was one of automatic protection.

"No problem, I'll get a taxi. You'll be needed at CI5. Thanks for babysitting me. No doubt someone will be in touch if CI5 wants me to testify."

"To what?" said Bodie with a trace of bitterness. "The case is closed."

Thirty minutes later they went their separate ways.

 

Already working at full stretch, the conclusion of the Glencairn/Martin operation gave CI5 an additional heavy workload, to the point that some of the newer members began to mumble rebelliously. The older hands, who had known Martin, said nothing. After searching Glencairn's three homes CI5 had a varied and complex haul of material to sift through, Glencairn's predilection and love of detail such that his every operation was itemised. In a massive floor safe in the master bedroom of his Kensington home they found a number of unmarked home videos. Cowley having been present when these were discovered, the investigating teams were denied a little salacious pleasure with which to lighten their task as Cowley ordered the tapes loaded into his car, a command that led to a number of vulgar, if inaccurate, reflections regarding his sexual habits.

Locking the tapes in his office, it was almost a fortnight before Cowley had the time to spare them a thought. On the point of going home before midnight for the first time in almost three weeks, he sighed and set down his briefcase, staring at the colour-coded tapes with distaste, having a shrewd idea of what they would contain. Pouring himself a fortifying drink, he set the first tape in the video.

He watched three tapes that night, his expression fierce, his mouth thinned with revulsion. The first had featured a child, a girl who could have been little more than eight years old; watching the tape on fast-forward Cowley had seen enough to realise she could not have survived. The second tape had featured three men, an Alsatian and a woman. The third had been milder by far and Cowley had watched it all, recognition, understanding and compassion on his face as he set that tape to one side before finally going home. Despite his fatigue he slept poorly, the memory of the videos he had seen and the nine others waiting to be checked haunting his dreams.

 

Having reassured a worried Tony Sullivan that his life had returned to normal, Doyle began to believe it himself when the third week passed without any interference from CI5. Despite himself, his thoughts had been much on Bodie; twice he had been on the point of contacting him before sanity set in. Their lifestyles were too disparate for any viable, long-term relationship and he was already spending too much time thinking about the man to be able to convince himself he wanted no more than a one night stand.

Glimpsing a familiar white Ford Escort parked close to his house as the taxi delivered him to his door, Doyle had the opportunity to school his face before leaving the cab. 

"Oh, no," he groaned theatrically, having paid off the driver. "Not again."

"Relax," Bodie reassured him as he followed Doyle up the steps. "I'm strictly a delivery boy on this one. You're looking very smart," he added as Doyle retrieved his keys.

"Meeting in the City," said Doyle, taking it for granted Bodie would be coming in. "Ten bloody hours to say stuff that shouldn't have taken more than two." Dropping his heavy attaché case onto a chair, already shoeless and stripping off his jacket, Doyle closed the front door by the simple expedient of leaning back against it.

"Blimey, you've put some work in on the hall," Bodie exclaimed, examining his surroundings with a critical eye. "It looks great."

"It isn't bad, is it," agreed Doyle, unfastening the burgundy silk of his tie with obvious relief and trying not to notice how tired Bodie looked.

"Did you do it all yourself?"

"Course. Best plastering I've ever done," Doyle admitted with a grin. "I've done the study, too. Room on your left."

"Bit over-crowded, isn't it," said Bodie critically, entering the room as far as he was able - approximately five feet.

"Get out of here. I've got to put the furniture somewhere. I'm working on the other rooms whenever I get the chance. I suppose you want a drink?"

"Gracious as ever, I see. You want to go careful, you'll be making me feel welcome next," Bodie warned him. 

"No chance," said Doyle with an easy smile, sauntering over to hand him a generously filled glass. "What's that?" He nodded to the package Bodie held.

Reminded, Bodie gave it to him. "Dunno. Cowley asked me to bring it round. Knowing him it won't be a present," he added sourly, remembering his overdue expenses.

"Book?" hazarded Doyle, tossing it one hand as he opened up the windows and unfastened his shirt, finding the house, which had been closed since he left it at nine that morning, stifling in the heat of August.

"Why not open it," suggested Bodie with poorly concealed curiosity.

"Why don't you open it?" said Doyle with obvious suspicion.

"Give me a break. Cowley has his faults but sending you joke parcels isn't one of them."

"I suppose not," conceded Doyle, busy with the brown wrapping paper, pausing when he found a brief note and an unmarked video tape. Giving Bodie a look of enquiry and seeing his look of puzzlement, Doyle turned to his video recorder, which was half hidden by the furniture being stored in the room.

Because there wasn't the space to join him, Bodie was denied sight of the first few frames, only the flicker of light and distorted voices indicating the tape was playing.

A moment later Doyle's whisky was soaking the carpet as Doyle gave a violent exclamation and dived forward, punching the controls of the video before ripping the tape out of the machine.

"What's wrong?" Bodie found himself nose to nose with an enraged Ray Doyle.

"Get out! Get the fuck out and tell Cowley to - Out!"

Ten seconds later a very bewildered Bodie found himself standing on the top of the steps, the front door slammed in his face, still feeling the grip of the bruising hands that had ejected him from the house.

"Fuck you, too," he muttered, angry himself by this time as he stalked down to his car. About to drive away, his hand hovered over the ignition key, unable to shrug away the memory of the expression on Doyle's face: behind the anger had been pain, behind the pain a kind of sick shame.

What could be so bad it could produce that reaction, particularly in an ex-hooker who must have seen it all? It was then that Bodie's own expression changed, remembering the video tapes Cowley had mentioned taking from Glencairn's house. Various squad members had been trying to investigate the making of those - with a view to locking the makers away for a very long time. If Cowley had sent one of those tapes to Doyle it could only be because Doyle had been a participant; an innocent participant, he corrected himself. Oh christ, no. Not Ray. Staring blindly through the windscreen, Bodie knew that had to be the reason for Doyle's violent reaction.

To look at him you wouldn't think Doyle would possess the strength to throw him out, yet here he was on the outside with a raging Ray Doyle on the inside. Glancing back to the blank windows Bodie knew he couldn't leave, not while Doyle was in this mood. Besides, he wanted to help.

Aware he was unlikely to gain admittance while Doyle was in this mood Bodie started up the car, driving to the street where the houses backed on to Doyle's small garden, remembering that the eight-foot brick wall would offer easy access.

Having scaled the wall and dealt with the kitchen door in under four minutes, Bodie froze, staring with disbelief down the barrel of the Webley held in an unwavering hand, Doyle's reaction time the fastest he had seen.

"It's me. I was - Damn it, Ray, I was worried about you. I knew you wouldn't let me back in so I - "

"Broke in," completed Doyle, with nothing welcoming in his manner.

Bodie gave an unhappy nod, relaxing when he heard the safety catch go on. "You're fast with that. I hope it's licensed."

"It's licensed. Now you've satisfied yourself I'm not foaming at the mouth or chewing the furniture, you can leave."

"What's wrong? What was on that video to - ?"

"Out," ordered Doyle, his expression controlled but inimical.

"No," said Bodie, folding his arms in front of his chest, confident Doyle wouldn't use physical violence now. "Not until I know what this is all about."

Brown eyebrows rose in picturesque disbelief. "You mean Cowley didn't give you a film show?"

"I haven't lied to you yet, I'm not about to start now," snapped Bodie.

"Am I supposed to believe you really don't know?"

"I have a few suspicions. What did Cowley's note say?"

A crumpled ball of paper was hurled at him as Doyle stalked out of the kitchen. Frowning, Bodie read the note:

_This will not be required for our investigation, nor has anyone but myself viewed it. I have no doubt you will know how best to dispose of it. As far as I am aware it is the only copy_.

None the wiser, Bodie went in search of Doyle, finding him in the study, systematically pulling tape from the video reel. The savagery of his expression was in stark contrast to the care of his movements, necessary if the tape was not to snap prematurely.

"If you want to destroy that you'll be best to burn it," offered Bodie quietly.

Doyle barrelled past him and into the kitchen where Bodie heard cupboards being banged and the sound of the contents being violently rearranged. Realising Doyle must be searching for matches Bodie located them in a drawer and set the box down on the draining board. Recognising the unsteadiness of Doyle's hands only after four matches spilled onto the floor, Bodie took the box from him and lit one before dropping it onto the coiled mass of tape nestling in the sink. The tape burned fast, with a bright light and a thin, greasy wisp of black smoke, leaving the twisted remains of the partially-melted casing. Activating the waste-disposal unit Bodie got rid of them, turning on the tap to rinse the sink out thereafter until there was only a smear of grease to betray the fact anything had lain there.

"Judging by Cowley's note he obviously thought he was doing you a favour," Bodie said at last, speaking to break the brittle, hostile silence.

"That's a first."

"He hasn't treated you so badly."

Dangerously still, Doyle stared at him, his eyes fierce and unfocussed for a moment. "No? Thought he'd give the lads in CI5 a treat, did he? How many of you enjoyed that before he wrapped it up in brown paper - appropriate, that - and sent you round with it?"

"I don't even know what was on it, or where it came from. It looks like one of the batch found in Glencairn's bedroom. From the way you're over-reacting I imagine you played a starring role."

"You can leave at any time," said Doyle.

"Cowley's note said no one else had seen it," continued Bodie, a leash on his own temper, aware that Doyle's rage was a camouflage for a host of other emotions.

"And naturally you believe him."

"Yes. If it was the kind of film I think it was he wouldn't have enjoyed it."

If possible Doyle's face seemed to lose what little colour it still possessed as his eyes narrowed. "And what do you think it was?

"You were conned. By Glencairn or someone working for him. Obviously a few years ago, when you were still selling it." Bodie shrugged. "I don't know." While he spoke he was pottering around the kitchen, filling the kettle, finding mugs, tea and milk. "Glencairn had a funny taste in home movies - sick - from what I've heard."

"You think I'd work on stuff like that?"

"Don't start," said Bodie placidly. "No, I don't. Was Glencairn blackmailing you?"

"No, he just - " Whirling round, Doyle's arm swept mugs and milk from the table to the floor. "The cunt!"

Bodie winced when that was followed by a thump as Doyle's fist impacted against the wall with a force that jarred his entire body. Unsurprised at Doyle's hiss of pain or the fact he didn't turn back into the room immediately, Bodie said nothing. Trying to punch holes in walls was something he had stopped doing when he discovered how much it hurt.

"What you need is a good, stiff drink - from a bottle unless you have an unlimited supply of glasses." As he spoke Bodie was clearing up the broken china.

"You don't have to - I'll do that," muttered Doyle awkwardly, obviously sobered by the pain. His arm hanging at his side, he resisted the urge to cradle the agony of his hand.

"Almost done. Amazing how far a drop of milk travels," Bodie added, giving the tiled floor a cursory wipe before straightening. "Do you still keep the scotch under the sink? Ah, yes. Great. There you go, get that inside you. That hand must be giving you hell."

Having taken a large gulp of scotch too fast Doyle coughed and took a more leisurely mouthful before looking at the other man. "It does."

"Have you broken anything?" asked Bodie practically, moving over to him.

"I'm all right."

"Course you are. Shut up, will you?" Bodie requested, pulling a face when he saw the rapidly swelling flesh over Doyle's knuckles, a little blood oozing where the skin had been broken. "Can you move your fingers?"

An inward hiss of pain and faint movement demonstrated that Doyle could.

"It looks all right," judged Bodie, steering Doyle over to the sink. "But you should see a doctor."

"Don't need one," muttered Doyle, looking everywhere but at his throbbing hand.

"Then pretend you're Clint Eastwood for a couple of minutes, this will smart," warned Bodie, pouring a little whisky over the grazed flesh in lieu of a hunt for disinfectant.

Doyle's hand jerked within Bodie's grasp and he blinked rapidly as the smart made his eyes water.

"I did warn you," said Bodie mildly.

"Thanks," said Doyle, giving him a swift, sideways glance.

The outward manifestation of his rage diminished, Doyle looked confused, tired and sick; Bodie resisted the urge to tuck a straggling curl back into place. "I'll find some ice, help get the swelling down. Take a seat and finish your drink."

Doyle opened his mouth, closed it and sat, although as a gesture of independence he made no effort to touch his drink.

Filling a bowl of ice cubes with cold water Bodie set it on the table, picked up Doyle's hand and stuck it in the water.

"Bloody hell! I can do a few things for myself," complained Doyle, but the venomous edge had left his voice.

"I can see that much," agreed Bodie, finding more mugs and milk and pouring out the now stewed tea. "I don't know what's going on but I do know Cowley isn't setting you up. You did CI5 a big favour when you told us about Barry Martin, he's trying to return the compliment."

"I must remember to thank him," said Doyle, his uninjured hand closing around the mug of tea.

"If you weren't working and it wasn't a badger job, how did Glencairn get you on film? He wouldn't have been a client of yours."

Bodie's matter of fact confidence was like balm on an open wound although Doyle didn't pause to wonder why the other man's good opinion should matter to him. "I was hijacked - in a manner of speaking. Turned up expecting my regular client and found myself with three of his heavy friends who preferred humiliation games to sex," he said in a flat monotone. "No big deal when all's said and done. They didn't even hurt me much."

"Not where it showed maybe," said Bodie. "Sometimes that's worse." He met Doyle's gaze without flinching.

"It's history," said Doyle, as if daring Bodie to deny it.

"Until it comes back to haunt you. How long ago was it?"

"Eleven years, give or take a few months. I have an inconveniently good memory."

"There's more to it than that," recognised Bodie, refusing to be intimidated.

"What the fuck d'you want to hear? That I nearly threw up? Okay, it's true, guilty as charged. I'd forgotten everything but the anger, forgotten what it felt like to be helpless and scared and - Then I saw it all - on my face."

"A man would have to be an idiot not to be scared in a situation like that. You handled it."

"Oh, sure. Christ!" Doyle got up and began pacing round the kitchen, dripping ice water in his path.

"Finish your drink," suggested Bodie a few minutes later.

Doyle paused, as if having forgotten his presence, his eyes haunted. He said only, "No, I'll be pissed if I do. I haven't eaten all day."

"So eat now," said Bodie, swivelling round on his chair to investigate the contents of the fridge. "I could do with something myself."

Doyle gave a faint, unseen smile. "What's new?"

"I'm a growing lad and it's been a long time since lunch," said Bodie, producing some doorstep-sized ham sandwiches in a short space of time.

Flexing his hand, Doyle realised he was ravenous. Attacking a sandwich, he subdued it to the degree where he could get his jaws over it. "Not bad," he allowed, his mouth full.

Leaving the lion's share to Doyle, whom he judged to need it most, Bodie made them some more tea, setting the mug down next to Doyle. "Your hand would be better off back in the ice."

Doyle studied the bowl of water, then Bodie. "It's melted." Rubbing his nose, his attention remained on the bowl. "I'm sorry you were in the firing line earlier. Thanks for coming back but you must have other things you want to do this evening."

"Plenty, but she gave me the elbow. All I had planned was a few hours of agony while I tried to sort out three months of back expenses."

"Where's the problem?"

"I'm numerically dyslexic and the bloody forms drive me crazy."

Doyle chewed thoughtfully on his last mouthful of sandwich. "You want any help doing them? I'm not."

"You mean that?" said Bodie, his expression hopeful.

"Yes to both. How are they done, vouchers and receipts?"

"And forms in fucking triplicate," said Bodie with gloom.

"Bring the stuff over one night, I'll have a look at it for you."

Bodie was already on his feet. "It's in the car," he said, in answer to Doyle's look of query, "and I'm a great believer in striking while the iron's hot. Won't be a minute."

As good as his word he returned with a bulging carrier bag, which he upended on the table.

Speechless, Doyle stared at the heap of torn receipts and scraps of paper covered in incoherent jottings. "Is this your usual filing system?"

Bodie had the grace to look a little abashed. "It's not usually this bad. I've been busy and it got out of control."

"What about when you were on sick leave with your arm?" asked Doyle, sifting through the heap. "What does 'EX 50 - 9' stand for?"

Bodie gave him a blank look and studied the message. "Dunno," he admitted, screwing it up and lobbing it in the direction of the waste bin.

"There's a calculator, pen and a pad in the study," said Doyle absently, determined not to be beaten.

 

Two hours later Bodie was regretting having ever mentioned his expenses to Doyle, who subjected him to searching interrogations Cowley couldn't have bettered, not to mention numerous pithy comments regarding Bodie's intellect and parentage.

This not how he had anticipated spending his evening, and more than a little peckish by now, Bodie gave a hard-done-by sigh, his previous attempts at escape having been foiled. For all the notice Doyle had taken of him for the last twenty minutes he might have been a part of the furniture, he thought with another sigh, his gaze on the other man's down bent head. Not that Doyle was hard on the eye, he admitted, relieved to see that concentration had replaced the predatory look on Doyle's face. Humiliation games were no fun at any age. When you were seventeen - No wonder the poor bugger had gone over the top at the thought of anyone seeing that film. Cowley should simply have destroyed it, he thought angrily, then paused, wondering a little at his own protective reaction.

"You can stop sighing like a lost soul and start signing these forms. I've finished," announced Doyle, sitting back in his chair.

"You mean you've done it!"

"Of course. It wouldn't have taken half the time if I'd been able to read your writing - or if you could remember anything about half the receipts," added Doyle acidly.

Bodie was too grateful to think of defending himself. "You're a hero. It takes me a couple of evenings at the best of times," he said, flicking through the neatly completed forms, with receipts and vouchers attached thereto. "Accounts aren't going to believe this."

"Then enjoy what's left of the evening with a clear conscience," said Doyle, disposing of a few oddments of paper whose presence neither of them had been able to account for. He stared at the 10p piece Bodie was holding out to him. "What's that, my fee?"

"You'll be lucky. Toss it. Loser buys dinner."

"It's nearly ten-thirty."

"Past your bedtime, is it?" asked Bodie with sympathy. "I'm hungry and you look it." He said nothing about the fact he had noticed the pensive droop to Doyle's mouth when he thought he was going to be abandoned, or his own ulterior motives. Not that he planned to move in straight away; the time wasn't right and Ray was too good to rush. But one night...

"Heads," said Doyle and tossed the coin.

"Tails," discovered Bodie with glee. "Right, where's the most expensive restaurant in this neck of the woods?"

Leaving the restaurant only when the manager's heavy-handed hints penetrated, both men were smiling as they strolled to their respective cars.

"D'you fancy a game of squash some time?" asked Bodie, leaning on his car bonnet, enjoying the cool of the early morning breeze after the humidity of the day.

"Sure. What about Friday?"

Bodie gave his companion's hand a dubious look but forbore to mention it. "Great. Will you book the court? I thought you could take me to the Marlborough Club," he explained in answer to Doyle's look of question. "I've always wanted to see how the rich and disgusting live."

"You think I'm going to inflict CI5 on my club? Or do you want an entrance there for work?" added Doyle, his smile fading.

"Do me a favour. What I'm working on has nothing to do with CI5," said Bodie cryptically.

Very wary, knowing he could become involved with this man all too easily and that Bodie worked for George Cowley, Doyle produced his car keys and unlocked the door to his Mini. "The loser can pay for the meal afterwards."

"Fine, you can bring me here again," said Bodie provocatively. "There's just one thing. I'm back on active duty and while I'm supposed to be off Friday evening that can mean bugger all. I don't always get the chance to let my - to let anyone know."

"Fair enough," said Doyle. "I won't think you're chickening out because you know I can beat you."

"Dream on, sunshine," scoffed Bodie, not wanting to end the evening yet wary of making his move. Sobering, he said, "I meant to mention this earlier. You've got lousy security for the house. Next time I come round I could take a look at it for you. A new system needn't be that expensive if you do the work yourself and I could always give you a hand."

"There's a Chubb lock on the front door," said Doyle ungraciously, disconcerted to realise how little Bodie had missed. If he could notice details like locks, how much more might he have learnt about their owner?

"And a Yale on the back. No locks or bolts on the windows and no burglar alarm. While that won't deter a determined pro it'll slow him down and it'll stop the majority of amateurs altogether. There's no point making it easy for the buggers, is there?"

"I never," Doyle told him as he slid into the driving seat, "make it easy. But I'm told it's worth the wait." Recognising a good exit line when he heard it he drove off without ceremony, wondering if Bodie had closed his mouth yet.

 

By unspoken consent, or rather by taking it for granted, Bodie and Doyle slid into the habit of meeting up once or twice a week for a swim, a game of squash or sometimes for no more than a quick pint. Their conversations easy, their constant sniping was without animosity as they tested each other out, discovering they had more in common than was immediately apparent.

Too experienced not to recognise the signals, Doyle knew Bodie wanted him; equally he was aware that while Bodie wouldn't make the first move, any approach he might make would be seized on with alacrity. Doyle affected not to notice, wary of complicating their budding friendship with sex, experience having taught him the two rarely went hand in hand, and never for him. Lovers he could find without much difficulty, friends were in short supply and he enjoyed Bodie's company too much to want to lose it.

For his own part Bodie refused to analyse his reasons for continuing to see Doyle. Spending half their time together in a state of sexual expectation, he couldn't decide if Doyle was wilfully stupid or biding his time. Admitting with some surprise how much he looked forward to their few hours together Bodie stopped trying and started relaxing as they shared innocuous or funny events from their very different lives, trust of a sort slowly forming between them. Coming to realise Doyle respected and trusted only a very few people Bodie knew he wanted to be one of them, aware that once it was given Doyle's loyalty to his friends was absolute. It wasn't blind and Bodie was in no doubt it would make its own demands but Doyle's friendship came to seem a very attractive proposition. With the spectre of Cowley taking an interest in his sex life ever present, Bodie turned to the names in his little black book for some light relief and a sexual outlet, playing the mating game by his own well-defined rules. Monogamy and he had only a nodding acquaintance, Bodie preferring to keep his options open and his heart his own; while he wasn't contemplating settling down for a life of domestic bliss with Doyle, equally he hoped for more than a one or two night stand. With unusual patience he sat back and waited, growing more confident as the weeks slid by.

 

"Morning, sir. You wanted to see me?" said Bodie with the blitheness of one whose conscience was clear.

"Half an hour ago - and save your excuses. Sit yourself down and listen hard. Bill Corrigan left the Squad a couple of years before you joined us but I've no doubt you've heard of him?"

"Plenty, all of it good," confirmed Bodie.

"Aye, he was a great loss to the Squad. He left because of family pressures, moved north and set himself up as a security consultant. He's done well."

"Yes, sir," said Bodie encouragingly when the Scot remained silent.

"Last night he came to me for help."

Bodie nodded and waited for the details. It was an accepted fact that CI5 looked after their own and therefore no surprise that Corrigan should have felt able to approach his ex-boss. Knowing from what he had heard of Corrigan that he was a man accustomed to succeeding in everything he undertook, Bodie tried not to speculate on why he should need to come to Cowley for help.

"It's something big then," he prompted when Cowley showed no sign of continuing.

"Only to the Corrigan family. Bill's fourteen-year-old daughter ran away from home at the beginning of June. Naturally Corrigan reported it to the police. Neither they nor Corrigan have managed to find her."

"Did she come to London?"

"Where do the majority of runaways head for? The big city and bright lights. Yes, she came to London and from what Bill discovered she fell into the inevitable trap."

"She's on the game then."

"I'm glad to see the news doesn't distress you unduly," said Cowley with acid displeasure. "That's one of the reasons I thought it best to speak with you alone. Corrigan lacks your ability to remain detached about the idea."

"Well he would, wouldn't he," said Bodie, unchastened by the reprimand and unenthusiastic about the prospect in front of him, chasing teenage hookers low on his list of favourite occupations. "Why did the kid run away, do we know?"

"Her name is Joanne. Here's a recent photo - taken in May. There are fifty copies in that envelope, more if you need them, and a full physical description, plus a copy of Corrigan's report. We don't know why. There wasn't any trouble at home, apart from the normal petty arguments."

"Boyfriend trouble?"

"None. And no upsets with any of her friends - no arguments at school, no bullying or teasing or trouble with a member of staff."

"It's not much help, is it?"

"It's the result of some painstaking investigation both by the police and Corrigan."

"Mmn." Bodie looked up abruptly. "I know he's a friend of yours, sir."

"I've yet to reach my dotage," snapped Cowley. "I've already initiated inquiries and spoken with the local man in charge of the case. There's nothing to indicate why Joanne should have wished to leave home."

"She's attractive enough in a mousy sort of way," remarked Bodie, studying the photograph. "By the age of fourteen you'd expect the local boys to have noticed. Why no boyfriends?"

"Apparently it was Joanne's choice. In fact she has few friends and never wanted to go out. Young for her age, and rather withdrawn by all accounts."

"Has she always been like that?"

Cowley gave him a sharp glance. "No," he conceded. "Neighbours in particular remarked on the change in her. Apparently she was a bright, bubbly little thing until she was nine or so. Her parents put it down to the onset of puberty. She's - er - quite advanced for her age."

Started her periods early, translated Bodie, continuing to study the Scot, able to think of another explanation for the change in Joanne.

"Och, you can take that look off your face. Corrigan's not been sexually abusing his daughter."

"It does happen, sir," said Bodie stubbornly, "even in the best of families. According to a recent report approximately forty thousand kids run away from home each year and a good percentage of them are thought to have suffered from sexual abuse in the home."

"You're very well informed," remarked Cowley, raising a sceptical eyebrow.

"Yvette," explained Bodie. "That social worker I went out with for a few months. She thought everyone had a social conscience. You couldn't help but pick up a few things," he added defensively.

"Perhaps you should renew your acquaintance with the lady, she might be able to offer a few suggestions as to how we find Joanne Corrigan - and fast."

"I can understand the Corrigans must be worried sick but not the special need for urgency."

"From his report you'll discover that Corrigan interviewed a number of people who had seen Joanne - or who thought they had. But the last time anyone saw her was nearly three months ago, June the thirtieth, getting into a big blue car with a woman in a mink coat."

"Well that's it then, she's dead."

"Not necessarily. Corrigan heard rumours of a new escort agency who recruit young girls fresh from the country. A very sophisticated and well-run agency."

"Fourteen-year-old girls are renowned for their sophistication," agreed Bodie.

Cowley gave him a repressive look. "We'll dispense with your reminiscences. Find Joanne."

"I'll do my best. Who else will be working on this with me?"

"I don't have anyone who can be spared - even you, but . . . Corrigan came to us for help. It's unfortunate he should have picked a time when everyone is working at full stretch. As soon as I can I'll assign others to the team but for now you're on your own. Everyone will be briefed, they'll do what they can to help."

Bodie gave a heartfelt groan. "Wonderful. I'd better start by seeing Corrigan. I'll be careful with him," he added, correctly interpreting Cowley's expression.

"You'll need to be. Keep me informed."

"If there's anything to tell," said Bodie with gloom.

 

Conscious of Bill Corrigan breathing down his neck and aware he had made no progress in locating Joanne during the next five days, Bodie went back to Cowley.

"I need more men on the case or a miracle on this one, sir," he said bluntly. "Everyone on the Squad has called in favours from every contact, grass, beat copper and dealer we know of - nothing. Especially not about a mysterious woman in a mink coat - or a big blue car. As for this new escort agency, no one's heard of it - they claim. Someone's put the frighteners on and I can't find out who."

"You're giving up?"

Bodie took a patient breath. "No sir, but without a lead there isn't anything for me to follow up. We've used every contact we have but they aren't much help in finding an amateur. Do you have any idea how many kids are on the streets? Too many. A lot of them are sleeping rough too," he added grimly, having spent four uninspiring nights checking out all the regular dossing spots around the city.

"We need advice from someone likely to have contacts regarding the more sophisticated end of the market."

Bodie counted slowly to three but much of his impatience still shone through. "We've tried that. Even Yvette's done her bit. I've checked with the Salvation Army because they've got a great record for tracking missing persons, the hostels, bed and breakfast places, drug centres, hospitals. The Vice boys couldn't help. They've heard the same rumours about this agency and got the same answers we have." Bodie hadn't enjoyed the last few days. He wasn't a born investigator, more inclined to bypass most of the alphabet when moving from A to Z; he had seen more than he cared for of the seedy hopelessness that could be the London streets. He didn't like jobs that got under his skin.

"I refuse to believe we've exhausted all the possibilities in one week," mused Cowley. "There must be someone with - Of course. Doyle."

Bodie sat up, a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Sir, I don't think - "

"You've been meeting him occasionally, I know. What does he have to say about this case?"

"Come off it, sir. If any of us discussed CI5 with outsiders you'd hang us out to dry."

"Doyle has security clearance."

Not caring for the older man's train of thought, Bodie frowned. "He did have - in June."

"He still does."

"You've been keeping an eye on him?"

"How else would I know you socialised? Of course I have. Good men are hard to come by and Doyle might yet change his mind about joining us."

"I shouldn't hold your breath."

"That isn't important at the moment. Doyle must still have contacts in the business."

"He's a businessman, sir. From what I saw of his file it's been a good thirteen or fourteen years since he was on the streets - at least six since he last worked."

"Do you know that for a fact?"

Disconcerted, Bodie forced himself to meet that shrewd, assessing gaze. "No, sir."

"Then we'll pay Doyle a visit. He's helped CI5 before."

"Reluctantly. And not by being reminded of - "

"No time like the present," said Cowley briskly, getting to his feet. "You can come with me."

Left with little option Bodie trailed after him.

 

It was only when the door opened, after Bodie had left his finger on the bell for a good four minutes, to reveal Doyle in a dressing gown and a scowl that Bodie appreciated why the roads had been so clear of traffic. It was Sunday morning, the traditional day of rest. He'd been too busy to notice the passage of days until now.

"What is it?" Unshaved, half awake and irritable, it took Doyle a few moments to recognise who stood on his doorstep, his half-smile of recognition fading when he saw the man at Bodie's side. "Oh, christ. What is it this time? It'd better be bloody well important."

"It is. I'm sorry to disturb you on a Sunday but we need your help again."

Slumped in the doorway Doyle gave Cowley a sceptical look. "Then I'm a brain surgeon."

"It's the truth, Ray."

Doyle's gaze remained on Cowley but there was a cold glint in his eye now; it was obvious he blamed Bodie for bringing Cowley here.

"If it's financial advice you want my doorstep isn't the place to get it - the Financial Services Act," he added.

Never having heard of it Bodie shrugged the irrelevance aside, feeling awkward and ill-at-ease with Cowley at his side - a reminder that in many respects he and Doyle were on opposite sides of the fence. "It's not about finance and it may take a while to explain. If you want to take a shower to wake yourself up I could put the coffee on," he suggested with every appearance of ease.

"How d'you know I don't have company?" said Doyle with suspicion.

"We don't," said Cowley. "May we come in?"

"It's important, Ray."

"It'd better be." Turning away, leaving the door for them to deal with, Doyle began to climb the stairs. His outraged voice drifted back down to them. "It's seven-thirty!"

"We thought it best not to call too early," said Cowley, offering a bland smile to the sullen face glaring down over the banisters.

Abandoning the unequal contest Doyle continued up the stairs, leaving Bodie to usher the Scot into the kitchen. 

When Doyle reappeared ten minutes later he was wearing only a pair of disreputable jeans, a sweatshirt in one hand; his hair still wet and brushed back, his face was unshaved. For all his heavy-eyed look it was obvious he had woken up. He refused to listen to anything until he had finished his first cup of coffee.

"A late night?" asked Cowley with every appearance of sympathy.

"Morning. I made the mistake of assuming I'd be sleeping late. What is it you want?"

"Advice," said Cowley simply. "We're trying to find a fourteen-year-old girl who, as far as we can be certain, ran away to London. We have reason to believe she's working as a prostitute."

"You need a miracle, not advice," remarked Doyle, pulling on his sweatshirt. "Where do I come into it?"

"We hoped you might be able to suggest some clubs or houses given that we've been unable to trace her on the streets."

"Me?" said Doyle, his astonishment plain. "How do you expect me to - ?" Light dawned. "Oh." His expression hardening, he set down his coffee cup with some care. "I forgot you're acquainted with my past history. You've been reading that dossier you compiled on me. Well you can take it and stuff it, Mr Cowley. I retired some years ago."

"Six, as I understand it."

"You're unreal," said Doyle with obvious restraint. "If you imagine for one moment that I'm going to give way to blackmail..."

Aware of all the signs of Ray Doyle about to detonate Bodie slid a plate of food in front of him. "Breakfast," he said brightly. "And don't even think of throwing it at me."

Ignoring him, Doyle pushed the plate away. "Why are CI5 after the girl?" he asked, betrayed into curiosity.

"She's the only child of an ex-Squad member," said Bodie, ignoring Cowley's glare as he butted in on whatever the Scot had been about to say. "She ran away from home at the beginning of June."

"And you've been trying to find her ever since?"

"We became involved on Tuesday of last week when Bill Corrigan came to me for help. It's been almost three months since anyone seems to have seen her. We're his last hope. He's a good man and he's a very worried man."

"So he should be. Why didn't he come to you before now?"

Cowley gave him a look of approval. "Corrigan isn't a man who finds it easy to admit defeat. He thought he could find her himself."

"Just so long as his pride hasn't cost the kid her life. Pride can be an expensive luxury," said Doyle without thinking.

"Quite so," agreed Cowley blandly. "Will you abandon yours and help us. Willingly?"

Bodie studied the table top, aware that with that muted threat Cowley had blown any chance of cooperation from Doyle. He had no illusions what Doyle's reaction to his own presence had been.

"It's obvious you don't know your arse from your elbow on this one," said Doyle with deliberate vulgarity. "I was just turned sixteen when I stopped working the streets. I know less about what's going on out there than you do. If the kid's alive she's probably mainlining and doing her best to turn enough tricks to support her habit and her pimp."

"This report is a compilation of the investigation carried out by the police, Corrigan and Bodie. Read it," said Cowley, sliding it across the table top.

"You're missing my point. I never had many contacts in the business - at any stage in my career. After the first few months my clients were - " Wary of betraying too much Doyle smoothly amended what he had been about to say. "I was selective. And lucky. If I hadn't been the odds are I'd be dead by now."

"Read the report," repeated Cowley and this time it was a request. "I don't expect miracles but even if you can't give us the names of any clubs or contacts you may know someone who can. This isn't an official CI5 investigation. We would take care to protect any names you gave us."

"Very reassuring. Were you listening to me earlier? I don't - Oh, what's the use," sighed Doyle, picking up the folder. Ignoring his two companions, he began to read, his concentration total.

"You've done a good job," he conceded finally, leaning his chair back on two legs to fish for a pencil and pad in a drawer. "I can think of three clubs not mentioned here, although I don't know if they're still in business. I can't give you phone numbers for them. Unless things have changed much, be very careful at the third place."

"I will be," said Bodie.

Doyle deigned to notice him for the first time since learning why CI5 had returned to haunt him. "I should have guessed," he said bitterly. "You're good."

"Eh?"

"But you could have skipped the games of squash. There again, you took to the Marlborough Club, didn't you?"

"Your social meetings with Bodie have no bearing on our presence here today," said Cowley. "What Bodie does in his free time is his concern."

"Of course it is," agreed Doyle, his disbelief plain. "I don't expect you'll get much joy from any of these addresses - unless you make it official and raid them."

"My staff are working flat out elsewhere. I can only spare one man. I chose one of the best," said Cowley.

"Then I should advise against a one-man raid if you want to keep him in one piece." Glancing back at the list he had made, Doyle frowned. "I'm out of touch with this scene now. You need someone who's - I could make a phone call, call in an old debt and get someone to put the word out. He should be able to offer a few more names, too."

"Do you mind if we wait?" said Cowley, seemingly rooted to his chair.

"Would it matter if I did?" returned Doyle. "You can wait in here - or the sitting room. It's the first on your left. This might take a while." He left the kitchen without waiting for Cowley's reply.

"What are you looking so sour about?" Cowley asked his companion.

"Nothing, sir," replied Bodie woodenly, aware that Doyle believed he had been using him; a not unnatural assumption in the circumstances. He was disconcerted by how miserable the knowledge made him and angry that he should have allowed a virtual stranger to matter so much. He and Ray got on too well, were easy in each other's company - or had been.

"Och, Doyle will come round," snorted Cowley, whose main blind spot was his assumption that the rest of the non-criminal population shared his own single-minded dedication to CI5.

Bodie spared him a brief glance but said nothing. There was nothing to say. Cowley had got his wish and Doyle would help them as far as he could, but Bodie knew enough of Ray Doyle to realise he was doing so only for Joanne Corrigan's sake.

Studying the younger man thoughtfully, Cowley began to appreciate that Bodie knew Doyle better than he had assumed. It boded well for their future teaming. "I'll have a word with Doyle. I'm aware you weren't in favour of asking for his help."

"Asking?" echoed Bodie. "It sounded like blackmail to me."

"When I want your opinion, 3.7, I'll be sure to ask for it. Good God, if Doyle's such a - "

"What?" asked an interested voice from the doorway. "I'm sorry," added Doyle, coming fully into the room. "It didn't occur to me to knock on a door in my own house. I've got some more names for you - all current, with addresses or likely whereabouts."

Taking the list from him, Cowley gave a nod of satisfaction. "Thank you. The Stork Club. I've heard of that."

"So have I," said Doyle. "Apparently it's more than a chain of beauty salons. According to my source there's some high class hooking going on behind the scenes. The staff are well paid and security is tight as a drum. Quite a little paradise. They also recruit them young and train them up."

"Hold on," said Bodie. "That junkie who told Corrigan about that woman in the mink. She mumbled something about Joanne turning down a cushy number when I saw her."

"Why would she do that?" asked Cowley.

"She could be dead," Doyle pointed out.

"It isn't as easy as TV would have you believe to dispose of a body - permanently. Why would she turn the job down?"

Doyle gave an irritated shrug. "My experience of fourteen-year-old girls is about as extensive as yours. Maybe she fell in love with a rival pimp, I don't know."

"Love?" Bodie's nose wrinkled.

"A rival?" asked Cowley.

"Who else is going to fall in love with a whore?" said Doyle tiredly.

"A client?" suggested Cowley.

Doyle gave him a look of disbelief. "That might happen in films, it might even happen on TV, that's the closest it ever gets to real life. A whore doesn't have much time for a social life - except their pimp and other whores. A good pimp is an Oscar winner - lover, brother, father, protector and friend all rolled into one. Not to mention disciplinarian, of course. But even being beaten up gives a kind of security. A good pimp makes himself their one friend in the world, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. According to this report Joanne's young for her age and she hadn't dipped her toe in the emotional waters of young love. Odds are she was lonely, homesick, out of her depth and terrified. Easiest prey there is for a pimp."

"You think Joanne gave up the good life for a pimp?" said Bodie with disbelief.

"Good God! Where have you been all your life? The Stork Club might offer some benefits but the clients won't change. Besides, not everyone thinks as clearly as you when they're in love. And in spite of everything - particularly their own experiences - you'd be surprised how many whores want love."

"Why should they be different from anyone else?" asked Bodie, forgetting Cowley's presence, remembering only one client who had fallen in love more than six years ago and who now had a worse dose than ever.

His expression distant, Doyle's eyes were fixed on something only he could see. "Because by the time they've been in the business for a few months they've had plenty of proof that love is for the birds. They're romantics."

"You must be joking," snapped Bodie.

"You've not mixed with many, I take it."

"I'm not in the habit of buying it."

"Good for you, mate," said Doyle ironically. "An attitude like that will take you a long way. If you go marching out onto the streets with your photos and questions and an attitude like that the best you can hope for is a mouthful of abuse."

It was an accurate summary of his last five days, which made it even less palatable. "The day I try and teach you your job is the day you can start teaching me mine," snapped Bodie.

"That will do, 3.7. Mr Doyle could have a point," said Cowley, reminding both men of his presence. "We need someone more capable of approaching these people - on whatever basis. No doubt your own work keeps you busy, Mr Doyle."

"Very," said Doyle, ahead of Cowley by this time.

"I appreciate that. However, if you could manage to spare us a day or so. Joanne is a quiet girl, inexperienced outside her family circle. We're all concerned for her safety."

Leaning back against the sink unit, his thumb hooked in the waistband of his jeans, Doyle shook his head in reluctant admiration. "It's been keeping you awake at night, has it? Pull the other one, Mr Cowley. You don't miss a trick, do you? I don't do auditions, least of all for CI5."

"I accept that, with reluctance. At the moment I'm more interested in finding Bill Corrigan's daughter alive and well. Will you help us? Naturally Bodie will accompany you, and of course CI5 will defray your expenses."

"Including my loss of earnings?"

Cowley gave a grim smile of acknowledgement. "If what I've heard of your business acumen is correct, I believe that would be beyond our budget. Corrigan may be able to offer you a certain remuneration."

Doyle wasn't listening, his meditative gaze on Bodie's stony-faced disapproval. "In my opinion the likelihood of tracing Joanne Corrigan in two days is about as likely as Bodie winning an Oscar. That said, I can certainly broaden his horizons for you. I'll even bring him back safely."

"You've got that the wrong way round," said Bodie icily. "Sir, CI5 isn't in the habit of employing civilians on a part-time basis."

"Perhaps that's something I should consider," mused Cowley.

"What if Doyle gets himself in trouble?"

Cowley eyed his maverick agent. "You'll keep him out of it. Clear?"

"Clear," agreed Bodie, his back to the wall.

"Mr Doyle?"

Doyle smiled without a trace of warmth. "Two days - Monday and Tuesday and that's it. On one condition."

"I don't like having conditions imposed on me."

"Nor do I. I like blackmail even less. I want your word that this is the last time CI5 arrives on my doorstep - for any reason. Unless of course it's with a warrant for my arrest."

"We don't need a warrant," said Bodie.

Cowley spared him an irritable glance. "You have it, Mr Doyle."

"Okay, it's a deal. What's wrong?" Doyle added to Bodie. "Afraid I'll lead you away from the paths of righteousness?"

Biting back his instinctive retort, Bodie said only, "Not at all."

"I'm sure the pair of you will wish to discuss matters in more detail," said Cowley, preparing to leave now he had achieved his objective. "Bodie, don't imagine this entitles you to any inventive expenses."

"Never mind, sweetheart," consoled Doyle. "Something as gorgeous as you, someone might offer you a freebie."

A firm rein on his temper, Bodie grinned, rightly guessing that would annoy Doyle the most.

Cowley paused at the kitchen door. "I need hardly remind you that as far as CI5 is concerned you're on leave."

"No, sir."

Returning from seeing Cowley out, Doyle was frowning. "What did he mean by that?"

"Exactly what it sounded like," said Bodie wearily. "If anything goes wrong I'm nothing to do with CI5."

"Charming," said Doyle, having absorbed the implications.

"That goes for you, too."

"I'd managed to work that much out for myself. Why do you take it?"

"It's realistic. Cowley's disowned me before, and in hairier situations than this."

"And you still trust him?"

"Until he gives me reason to do otherwise. Come to that you've trusted him twice yourself."

"Three times," said Doyle with resignation. "This is the third. Third time lucky, maybe. But only because I haven't had much choice. It doesn't stop me doing what I can to guard my back."

Bodie peered absently into the long-cold dregs of his coffee and tried not to dwell on how hungry he was. "We'll make a CI5 agent out of you yet."

"Not if I have any say in the matter. What do you think happened to Joanne?"

Sitting at the kitchen table they swapped and discarded theories, the atmosphere between them gradually easing.

"I keep forgetting you worked the streets," remarked Bodie absently. "Did you like the work?"

Doyle gave a humourless laugh. "I knew it!"

"All right," conceded Bodie with a grimace, "it was a stupid question. I still want to know."

"Why?"

Meeting cool green eyes Bodie lost much of his confidence. "I don't know. Does there have to be a reason?" His emotions confused, he looked away.

"There's always a reason. But I'll humour you, this once. I never hated it. Job's a job. The streets could be scary but I hadn't got any other skills. Come to that, I wasn't much good at giving blow jobs at first."

Even Doyle's matter of fact tone turning him on, Bodie looked up in surprise. "You were a novice?"

"How good was your technique at fifteen?"

Hearing the rough warmth ease back into Doyle's voice, Bodie relaxed with a wry grin. "In my fantasies, you mean?"

"Exactly. I hadn't got any further than a lot of furtive fumbling, being given the elbow by the object of my lust and having to make do with some frantic wanking. I wasn't much to look at as a kid - too skinny, too short. While I was interested in girls, they weren't interested in me. They were probably too busy going out with smooth-looking sods like you," Doyle added mournfully.

"Probably," Bodie agreed, with no attempt at modesty.

Doyle kicked him.

"Bloody hell! Were you born obnoxious or did you have to work at it?" grumbled Bodie, rubbing his shin.

"Practice makes perfect."

Bodie found himself wishing his view of Doyle wasn't curtailed at chest level. "Why did you carry on tarting once you'd earned a crust?"

Doyle decided not to take offence. "You don't need to work for CI5. Why do you?"

"It's hardly the same - "

"Do I detect a note of moral superiority?"

"Give it a rest. It isn't the same though," Bodie insisted.

"Isn't it? Come on, why do you do it?"

"Because I'm good at it and because I enjoy it - most of the time."

"And?"

"And - " Floundering, Bodie scowled at him, recognising defeat when it stared him in the face.

"I'm surprised you didn't join the French Foreign Legion."

"Funny you should say that."

"Come off it. You didn't, did you?" asked Doyle, unprepared to put any insanity past his companion.

"No, thank christ. Thought about it at one time. See the world and all that."

His head propped on one hand, Doyle was eyeing him thoughtfully. "You know your trouble," he mused, "under that bullshit exterior you're a romantic."

"I'm bloody not," denied Bodie, revolted.

"Have it your own way."

"And even if I was I wouldn't tart for a living in the hope of finding my true love."

"Shame," remarked Doyle, unruffled by the obvious implication. "With your kind of looks you could have made a fortune."

Outraged, Bodie glared at him.

"Or maybe not," said Doyle, unperturbed. "While that smouldering look would go down a treat, not many tricks are into knuckle sandwiches."

Busy on a private train of thought, Bodie said, "I still don't think you're right in saying most whores are on the game in a search for love."

"Love's as good a reason as any."

"Don't give me that. Love's the rainbow everyone chases. Doesn't mean they go out selling themselves to find it."

"No? Or is it simply that some transactions are more honest than others? Whores are upfront about what's on offer - money for sex. How many times have you been in love with the lady you wine and dine and murmur sweet nothings to - and for what?"

"That's a bloody cynical way of - "

"For chrissake," snapped Doyle, beginning to lose his patience. "You want to kid yourself, terrific. Don't expect to convince me, okay?"

It was only then that Bodie realised what Doyle had been telling him.

"I'll meet you tomorrow at CI5 - eleven o'clock," Doyle added.

"Here would be better. I'm supposed to be on leave," Bodie reminded him as he took the hint and rose to his feet, surprised to discover it was almost two o'clock.

"All right," agreed Doyle, his lack of enthusiasm obvious.

"Do you think we have any chance of finding Joanne?"

"Truth?" asked Doyle, leading the way down the hall.

"Truth," confirmed Bodie, his eyes riveted on the flex and relaxation of Doyle's denim-clad backside.

"Bloody little," said Doyle, opening the front door. "Even if we do find her we might have to persuade her to leave the pimp she thinks loves her."

"Pimps only love themselves - and money."

"You know that, I know that. She might be a bit young to have learnt as much."

"Did you always know that?"

"If Cowley took the car you'll need a taxi home. There's one coming down the road," said Doyle.

Running down the steps to hail it, Bodie forgot that Doyle had avoided answering his question. He remembered when he was halfway home.

 

"You didn't answer my question yesterday," said Bodie, the moment Doyle opened the front door.

"Which one?"

"You remember," said Bodie with confidence. "Are you going to?"

"No. I'm in the middle of breakfast. Have you eaten?"

"Not since six-thirty this morning," said Bodie, following him down the hall.

"You haven't got tired of playing the one-upmanship game, I see. You won't want a second one then."

"I wouldn't mind a sausage sandwich," Bodie admitted, his nostrils twitching.

"You'd better go out and buy some then, I'm eating the last one. You can have toast or stale bread."

"Toast, I think," decided Bodie without undue deliberation.

"Don't expect me to make it for you. You should know where everything is as well as I do by now," said Doyle sourly, reseating himself.

"You've got scrambled eggs, too," noted Bodie in an accusing tone.

"True. I used the last two eggs to make them."

"They've probably got cold," said Bodie, muttering under his breath as a too-thick slice of bread failed to fit in the toaster.

"They have. I like cold scrambled eggs."

"You would."

Conversation waned while both men concentrated on their respective breakfasts.

"You'd better get some shopping in before we start work," said Bodie, pouring himself a second cup of tea. "I'll pay for it."

"I know you will," said Doyle, his teeth very white when he smiled. "I thought we agreed on eleven o'clock? You're an hour and a half early."

"Thought you'd like a chance to read these," said Bodie, tossing a fat A4-sized envelope on the table. "Some of us have been working this morning. I ran a check on those names you gave us."

"Good. Should you be showing me these?" added Doyle, a brief glance at the reports enough to tell him that 'check' was something of an understatement.

"No, and I'd rather you didn't mention the fact to Cowley while we're on the subject."

"That's very trusting of you," said Doyle, glancing up from the printout he was scanning. "Should I be flattered?"

"Just discreet," said Bodie, privately disconcerted by his own inclination to trust Doyle. "That's to be the tone of this investigation, not mayhem in Mayfair. What's that?" he added, staring at the list Doyle had been scribbling and was now holding out.

"My shopping list. You can see to it while I read these. You'd better take some money, there's quite a lot to get," Doyle added, rising a little so he could retrieve his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

"A bit!" exclaimed Bodie bitterly. "I'll be buying up the bloody shop."

"Then the quicker you start, the quicker you'll be finished. Pass me the phone before you leave, would you. I've just thought of someone else who might be able to help. Don't forget the money," Doyle yelled to his companion's back.

" - pay me later," floated down the hall, before the front door slammed shut.

Dismissing Bodie from his mind Doyle made another call to Freddie, then one to Kevin. Both men had left Housecalls before the portfolio had closed to go into business on their own account. While his request wasn't popular they owed him numerous favours and grudgingly supplied the information he needed. By the time the front door bell rang Doyle had eliminated four names from the list and knew that copies of Joanne's photograph, which he had sent round to Freddie's by courier, would be widely distributed.

"Want any help?" he asked the carrier-bag-laden figure. 

Giving him a look of dislike Bodie thrust the bags at him and returned to the car for the next lot, muttering under his breath.

"This is great," said Doyle, busy loading the freezer. "Mrs Hodges has been on at me to stock up so she can do some more cooking. I won't need to do it again for a couple of months at least."

"D'you mean to tell me - "

"Save it," Doyle advised him. "I've crossed four names off the list while you've been gone. You took your time, didn't you?" he added, glancing at his watch.

"Don't," Bodie advised him, sorely tried, "push your luck."

"Well don't just stand there brooding, it's time we got started."

"I'm going nowhere until I've had something to eat," said Bodie firmly. "It was hell in there. I half wondered if I'd get out alive. You owe me a small fortune."

Paying him, Doyle added kindly, "You can keep the change for going."

Thirteen pence richer than when he had woken up that morning Bodie debated flattening him but decided to save his energy for the ham and cheese sandwich he was constructing, the insertion of tomato and watercress causing it to rise to improbable heights. Busy trying to subdue it, he munched a sausage roll.

"I don't remember ordering these," said Doyle, giving the packet a disdainful poke.

"Don't you," said Bodie, his voice a little muffled.

"I'll put them on my expenses," said Doyle darkly.

Bodie was scanning the printouts he had left with Doyle. "Are you sure we can cross these off our list?"

"As sure as we're likely to get. As you're looking so smart we may as well concentrate on the top end of the market today and do the clubs - two hayseeds on a business trip to Sin City, with fat wallets and high expectations. There are still eight clubs on the list so don't go getting carried away with your first selection or you'll never make it beyond the second place."

"Third," corrected Bodie with hauteur.

"Somehow I knew you'd say that."

"I am never disappointing," said Bodie, licking his fingers. "I didn't realise we'd be going in as clients."

Doyle gave him a patient look. "You told me this is an unofficial investigation. I hate to disillusion you but they don't welcome sightseers. Or at least not the non-paying kind."

Bodie was looking dubious. "Cowley will do his nut. How much is this likely to cost?"

"If you keep to the simple stuff we should be able to keep the bill under five thousand. This is the top end of the market."

"I don't care if the clubs are staffed with this year's debs, CI5 can't afford that kind of money."

"We'll have to go in as voyeurs then, that should cut the bill by a good half."

"I can tell you've never been a civil servant," sighed Bodie. "If that's the cheapest we can do it, we'll have to make it official."

"Then you'll get bugger all out of them."

"You're not coming with me?"

"I don't work for CI5 and I've no intention of starting. I'll explore the possibilities at the other end of the market."

"You'll pay some street scrubber for - "

" - information," said Doyle tartly, "though I don't know what you're being so snotty about."

Abruptly remembering how Doyle had begun his career Bodie pulled an apologetic face. "We'll stick together. If we're lucky we won't need to worry about Mayfair."

"Then I suggest we stop off at your place so you can change. Don't wear anything you're fond of. Berwick Market's the classiest spot we'll be visiting."

Aware he was out of his depth Bodie allowed Doyle to make the decisions for now, driving them back to his flat where he changed into an old pair of cords, polo neck and a leather jacket he thought he had thrown out. Reluctantly he stowed his shoulder holster and Browning away.

"What name will you be using today?" asked Doyle as Bodie re-emerged into the drizzle.

"David - Bromley," Bodie amended, almost tripping over his own tongue as he realised how nearly he had betrayed himself.

"David?"

Aware of the odd note in Doyle's voice Bodie got the car under way. "Or Paul, John, George - "

"Make it Ringo," suggested Doyle. "I'll be Ray Duncan. If you got a move on we might be able to hit the streets before the lunchtime rush is over."

"I never," said Bodie firmly, "rush."

 

It was well over three the next morning before they returned to Doyle's Chelsea home, by which time Bodie had lost all desire for flippancy. Having assumed himself to be worldly wise he had discovered his mistake several times in the last fifteen hours. He had been very quiet during the drive home, his expression withdrawn as he automatically followed Doyle indoors.

Heading for the sitting room Doyle poured them both a large drink. "Here, you look like you could use it."

"And you don't, I suppose. Oh, fuck it." Bodie drained his glass in three angry swallows, needing the spurious warmth of the scotch.

"Let's just say most of it wasn't news to me." Crouching down, Doyle switched the gas fire on full although the centrally heated room was a vast improvement on the chilly streets.

Bodie studied the leaping imitation flames, then the half-averted profile they lit. "It got to you, too."

"Me? No, I loved it. Smashing way to spend an evening."

"Sorry."

"Who for?" returned Doyle, rising in one supple movement.

"Myself, I think. What time shall I come round tomorrow - that is, today?"

"It'll get worse," Doyle warned him.

"I know that."

"No," said Doyle quietly, his expression relaxing when he saw the strain of the day imprinted on the other man's pale face, "I don't think you do. The youngest we met today must have been at least twelve. They'll be younger tomorrow." When Bodie said nothing, he added, "Make it late afternoon, about fourish. We'll be having another late night."

"Fine. I'll see myself out." At the door, Bodie turned. "Are you all right?"

Every defence in place, Doyle stared at him in surprise. "Of course. As you and Cowley delight in reminding me, this is my world. If it's too much for your delicate sensibilities I can go by myself."

The snub was like a blow in the face. Accepting it in silence Bodie let himself out. For once he was grateful to have the flat and his king-sized bed to himself. He spent a long time under the shower, not least because he needed to rid his body of the shaming, nagging ache of arousal which, together with disgust, had dogged him all day. What made it worse was the fact he was positive Doyle had known exactly what he was feeling.

His sleep patchy and unrefreshing Bodie spent several hours at headquarters before lunch, grateful Bill Corrigan wasn't around as he made innumerable phone calls, harassing all his contacts for progress. Privately believing Joanne to be dead, he persisted only because - like Cowley - he hated to be beaten. London was big, but not so big it could hide someone forever. The problem was that he knew Cowley wouldn't be able to justify keeping him on the case for much longer.

Arriving at Doyle's house just before four and recognising the red Rover parked a few yards down the road, Bodie paused. As his hand rose to the bell, the door opened and he found himself facing Cowley, Bill Corrigan at his side.

"As soon as we've..." Glancing at the apathetic man at his side Cowley obviously amended what he had been about to say. "I'll contact you. Ah, Bodie. Doyle will update you on the situation. Take the rest of the day off." His hand under Corrigan's elbow he steered the man down the steps; Corrigan seemed to have aged twenty years since Bodie had seen him last. Watching Cowley help him into the car before driving off, Bodie came back to life. 

"What was all that about?" he demanded, stepping over the threshold. Catching sight of Doyle, who was sporting a split lip and a beginning-to-colour swelling on his hitherto unmarked cheekbone, he paused. "And what happened to you?"

"Corrigan," said Doyle, closing the front door. "I'm planning to get pissed," he added, heading down the hall for the sitting room. "You can either join me or bugger off."

"Stay sober for long enough to tell me what's happened. Has Joanne been found? Is she dead?"

Having poured himself a large tumbler of scotch Doyle was prowling round the room, the glass still in his hand. "Have a drink."

"Later. What's going on?"

Rubbing the back of his neck Doyle came to a brief halt. "Joanne's alive. I had a phone call about half-past nine this morning. She'd been spotted by someone in a local supermarket of all places and he'd followed her back to where she was staying. I drove over there and spoke with her. Once she knew I was a friend of her father's she was willing to talk."

"Where is she then? Didn't you bring her back with you?"

"No."

Bodie stared at the other man's back with disbelief. "I'm not bloody surprised Corrigan thumped you. Who the hell d'you think you are?"

"Who do I have to be?" demanded Doyle, whirling round. "Get off my back, Bodie, I'm not in the mood." Some whisky had slopped over his hand and he gave the glass he was holding a look of surprise before he set it down, wiping his damp hand against his leg.

"Where is she?"

"I promised her I wouldn't say," said Doyle, all emotion flattened out of his voice. His eyes looking bruised with fatigue he continued his aimless prowl around the room. "I know it's a risk but...Joanne has some rights too."

"That must have been a great comfort to Corrigan," said Bodie sarcastically before he remembered the glazed shock on Corrigan's face. "Sorry, I'm listening. You met Joanne and - ?"

"She agreed to let me tape the conversation."

"And?" prompted Bodie when his companion showed no sign of continuing.

"Cowley took the tapes with him."

"Give me the gist," suggested Bodie, an edge to his voice that Doyle gave no sign of noticing.

"She did work at the Stork Club for a couple of weeks. Or at least they started her training. Broke her in as you might say. The reason she dropped out of circulation so quickly was the fact the Club has another lucrative sideline for a select few. It finds children for childless couples who aren't too fussy about how they get one. Since the crackdown on importing Third World babies the merchandise has been hard to come by. Then someone had the bright idea - surrogate mothers."

Bodie slowly sank into a chair. "Joanne?"

"How did you guess? She's young, healthy and desperate for money. She was promised two hundred and fifty pounds on conception, six thousand more when she's delivered of a healthy baby that she'll never see. It seems they have tame doctors on tap. Midwives, too, I presume."

"Who's the father?"

Doyle looked up then. "A man. Who knows? Joanne doesn't. She didn't need to and isn't interested. Her pregnancy was confirmed three weeks ago."

"She told you all this?"

"That's right. Very matter of fact she was, regurgitating the spiel they'd fed her. Streetwise gloss and underneath it a frightened kid who wants her mum. In some ways she's more like a kid of nine or ten. She intends to have the baby and can't foresee any problems when it comes to handing it over. Then she settles down with her money - she seems to think it'll be enough to set her up for life."

"How's it organised? Who's behind it? Where's she staying?"

"A flat in . . . South London. She shares it with three other girls and a Mrs Thomas who's ever so kind," said Doyle tiredly. "They get ten pounds a week pocket money, food and a roof over their heads. So long as they're in by six o'clock the day's their own. All they have to do is stay off the drink and drugs."

"I'd've thought they'd have kept a tighter rein on them," said Bodie slowly.

"So would I but when you think about it what have they got to lose? I don't know if Joanne knows who's behind it. Shouldn't think so, Mrs Thomas seemed to be her only contact."

"I presume you called Cowley when you got back. What happens to Joanne now?"

"Christ only knows. I've never heard of a set-up like it. Not in England. I don't think Cowley had either," added Doyle with a sardonic flash of humour.

"If Joanne's so happy why did she agree to see you?"

"Happy? I wouldn't say she's that. She's starting to feel rough first thing in the morning and she wants her mum. She met me so I could tell her parents she was all right. She was scared to get in touch with them herself. All right," echoed Doyle, his expression bleak. "Her life's fucked. And you know the worst part? She trusted me not to give up her address. After half an hour. Christ, it's pathetic."

"Why should her life be fucked?" Bodie made an impatient gesture. "I don't mean the obvious. I can see the family aren't going to be too thrilled about her activities but - "

"She won't go home again," interrupted Doyle. "Gets hysterical if it's even mentioned."

"I knew it," muttered Bodie. "Corrigan was mucking her around."

"Not him, his father, Joanne's grandfather. His parents live down in Sussex, close to the sea. Lovely house, big garden, cats and dogs - the whole Disney bit. The family spend all their holidays there and Joanne would spend about a month of each summer holiday there by herself, sometimes Easter too. And she loved it. And her grandparents. They're - they were - a close-knit family. She worships her grandfather." Taking his hands from his crumpled-looking jacket Doyle came to an abrupt halt in front of the fireplace, gripping the edge of the mantelpiece. Wiser now, Bodie made no attempt to hurry him on.

"Then it started. It was their secret. She was nine years old. At first it would only happen once or twice during a stay. As she got older it was every night. Her parents didn't understand why she wanted to go home with them, and later why she didn't want to go down to Sussex at all. They thought she was being difficult for the sake of it and there were arguments and then they'd all go down to Sussex and it would all start again. She said she couldn't tell her parents. She daren't. She didn't think anyone would believe her. She finally ran away because she'd been told she'd be spending all of August in Sussex and she couldn't take any more."

"But she could have told - "

Half-turning, Doyle stared him down with ease. "Who? She was afraid that if she told anyone, and they believed her, they'd think it was her fault. That she wanted it to happen. She still thinks it's her fault," he added colourlessly. "Besides, she didn't want her father to know."

"He does now."

"True. For all the good it will do anyone."

In the silence that fell Bodie studied the opposite wall, aware Doyle was more deeply involved in this than he had expected, too involved to take a pragmatic view. It wasn't the first time such a thing had happened, it wouldn't be the last.

"Why did Joanne start whoring?" he asked abruptly.

Turning back into the room Doyle gave a parody of a smile. "Why not? As she said, she still didn't enjoy it but at least she knew what was happening. It was her decision. And she got paid for it. When she'd talked it all out - I couldn't stop her once she started - I left her where she felt safe."

Bodie's gaze moved from Doyle to the broken lamp and the trace of blood on the carpet. "I take it Corrigan went for you when he heard about his father?"

"That's right. Poor bastard. Trouble is, you see, he knows it's true. He said Joanne was never given to making up stories or lying."

"There's always a first time."

"No," said Doyle tiredly, "she gave too many details."

Bodie accepted Doyle's judgement without further question. "How do we know she'll stay put so we can find her again?"

"Because she promised me she would. I know it doesn't mean much but it was the best I could do."

Unconvinced, Bodie stared at his outstretched legs. "And if she tells Mrs Thomas that she's spoken to a friend of her father's?"

"She's fourteen, pregnant and homesick, not stupid."

"I might debate that. Okay, so she'll keep quiet. When's Corrigan going to pick her up?"

Doyle gave him a dangerous look. "He isn't. Not until he's sorted things out this end. Joanne's staying right where she is until the Corrigans have sorted out their feelings."

"Joanne'll be collecting her old age pension by then."

"Don't give me that. You know what I mean," snapped Doyle. "Besides, I gave her my phone number and address and enough money for a mini cab to bring her here, any time, day or night."

"She's a bit young for you, isn't she?"

Doyle didn't move for a very long time. "To give him his due, even Cowley didn't come up with a line like that," he said at last, his face and voice under perfect control.

"I'm sorry, it's just - She can't stay in that set up."

"What do you propose to bring her back to, Happy Families? The chances are that until this has been sorted out, if it ever can be, she'll be taken into care. You ever been in care, Bodie?"

"No, but - "

"I have. She's better off where she is."

"I take it Cowley's gone off to interview the grandfather," said Bodie, not choosing to argue with that contention at the moment.

Doyle nodded. "He'll be in touch with me afterwards so I can contact Joanne again."

Bodie glanced at his watch. "It doesn't take long to drive down to Sussex. They'll be questioning Corrigan's father by now."

"Somehow I can't see that helping much."

"Maybe, maybe not. If anyone can get blood out of a stone Cowley can. Why didn't you contact me when the call came in about Joanne?"

"What?" Doyle stopped his pacing, his hands thrust deep in his pockets as he stared at the seated man. "Oh, that's easily answered. I was pissed off by the way CI5 handle people - and me in particular. I had it all planned. I was going to find Joanne for you in record time and watch the Corrigan family walk off into the sunset while everyone patted me on the back. Some sunset," said Doyle, a self-derisive twist to his mouth. "I didn't give that pathetic kid a thought. She isn't a survivor, Bodie."

Like you? wondered Bodie, still more interested in the man in front of him than the fecund Joanne. "She's alive. While Corrigan's in shock at the moment, he'll snap out of it. Joanne will be all right once she's back home."

"And they'll all live happily ever after," finished Doyle sarcastically.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself because she got under your skin. I'm not saying there won't be problems but none that can't be resolved. At least she's alive to tell the tale."

"You think that's all that matters?"

"For want of any proof to the contrary, yes, I do," said Bodie with a hint of impatience before he paused. "About what happened on Sunday. I don't use my friends," he added awkwardly.

"You'd have so many of course."

Bodie took a patient breath. "No. Perhaps that's what makes those I do have so important."

Doyle raised a sceptical eyebrow and turning away, picked up his abandoned drink.

"Don't misunderstand me. I think Cowley was right to approach. you for help - in this job we have to use all the help we can get. Thanks to you Joanne's been found. But he was wrong in the way he approached you. You don't know him well enough to realise, but he's worried. Bill Corrigan was close to him in the old days."

"Very touching," said Doyle, setting his glass down with a sharp click.

Taking a steadying breath, Bodie tried again. "While it wasn't my idea to come to you for help I would've asked you if I'd thought of it. It didn't occur to me."

"With my record? Give me a break."

"I didn't use you or our friendship. I'm sorry you feel that's what happened but - "

"So am I," interrupted Doyle. "It won't happen again, I can promise you that much. I'm buggered if I'm going to put up with being tailed just because I play squash with you, or Cowley arriving on my doorstep every time he thinks I can be of use to him. Unlike your revered leader I don't live in the past. That part of my life is long since over."

"Is it?"

Taking the question for a challenge, Doyle straightened, an unfriendly glint in his eye. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"That until your past stops worrying you more than it does anyone else it can't be over," said Bodie, his manner uncompromising. "Cowley's got plenty of faults but he doesn't make judgements about people. He takes them as he finds them, from the Home Secretary to an ex-hooker."

"I'd like to see him try to blackmail the Home Secretary the way he did me. And risk his knighthood and pension? Do me a favour. Speaking of which, you can go now. Don't come back."

Half-angry by this time, Bodie stared at him. "I thought we were friends."

"Funny that, so did I - until you brought Cowley round for breakfast. I might get fooled once, it doesn't happen twice. Get any other useful information out of me, did you?"

"I wasn't using you! For chrissake, what does it take to convince you?"

Cold, clear eyes raked him from toe to crown. "More than you've got, that's for sure. Goodbye."

Rising with a controlled grace Bodie approached him, moving so close their bodies were almost touching. Well aware of the effect it was in his power to produce on several levels, ranging from intimidation to lust, he wasn't surprised to see Doyle remain wholly unintimidated, Ray's stubborn pride something he understood all too well.

"I see you favour the disposable lifestyle, easy come, easy go," he said, his voice quiet for all the disconcerting intensity of his expression. "Maybe one day you'll grow up enough to try working a problem out instead of shutting it out of your life."

"You aren't that important," said Doyle, moving away a little now he had proved his immunity.

"I know. That's the final bloody irony. I could have loved you," continued Bodie conversationally, staring at the carpet. "Big joke isn't it, considering I never let anyone under my skin enough to get involved. But you managed it. God knows how because you're no sex symbol, unless you decide to turn it on. Allied to which, you're stroppy, evil-tongued and sulky."

"But you want to fuck me," completed Doyle, understanding perfectly.

"Amongst other things," said Bodie to his averted back. "We both know that if I'd made a move we'd've been screwing weeks ago. Only I had something more permanent than a couple of weeks in mind. I told myself I should take it slow, win your trust. But you'll never let that happen, will you? If you ever decide to leave your ivory tower and join the real world you know where to find me."

"Love?" There was open scorn on Doyle's face as he wheeled round. "Having your balls tied in knots is called something very different. You forget, I know the real world."

The anger that had led Bodie to reveal what he had hidden even from himself until now had faded, something very like pity in his eyes. "Do you? I don't think you'll ever let yourself get involved enough to do that. It takes one to know one, sunshine," he added softly, one hand unconsciously reaching out. "I've been there."

"Oh, tell me about it. Good christ, where have you been living, Bodie?"

Contempt defeating him where rage could not, Bodie studied the other man for a moment, nodded, and let himself out of the house.


	4. Chapter 4

oOo

 

Knowing it had yet to sink in that he wouldn't be seeing Ray Doyle again, and with no wish to hasten the process, Bodie went back to headquarters, relying on work to occupy his thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. To the surprise of the few other agents around the place he quietly got down to some long-overdue paperwork, his bleak expression deterring those who might otherwise have interrupted him.

"The Duty Officer said I'd find you here."

Looking up to see Cowley in the doorway, it was a moment before Bodie realised how late it was. Recognising the expression on Cowley's face he sat back in his chair. "You had a wasted journey."

"That's right," said Cowley tersely, his anger and frustration evident for all his attempts to conceal them. "Murphy drove Mary Corrigan down to London, Bill's with her now. When they've had the chance for a chat we'll go to see Doyle."

"Has Joanne agreed to go home?" asked Bodie in surprise.

"Not in so many words but of course it's what the Corrigans hope for. I needn't tell you this business has come as a terrible shock to them," continued Cowley, his heavy tone negating the trite phrase. "They had no idea and blame themselves totally."

Able to think of several comments, none of them particularly sympathetic, Bodie restricted himself to the most innocuous. "They believed Joanne?"

"Bill certainly does. He insisted on coming down to Sussex with me, and in the circumstances... By the time we arrived he was in control. His father was out so I spoke with Mrs Corrigan first. It was obvious she knew and that she had known for a very long time. Not that she admitted as much to me - or herself. Och, I hate cases like this," Cowley burst out.

"It's the first we've had to handle," Bodie told the angrily pacing figure.

Cowley turned on him. "D'you suppose that makes it any more palatable? What sticks in my craw is that we can't touch him, unless Joanne will testify. In other circumstances I would have found him an interesting man. He didn't turn a hair. Bill wasn't present for that interview."

"Very wise. I hope someone will be keeping an eye on Corrigan senior," added Bodie with brutal frankness. "It wouldn't do for him to have an accident. If Bill's half as good as rumour says he'd arrange one with no trouble."

"He'd be the obvious suspect. Then there would be the investigation, trial, publicity - never mind the effect on Joanne. I played that for all it's worth," Cowley admitted heavily and Bodie's eyes narrowed, having seen Cowley this involved in a case only once before.

"You've done all you can and more, sir. If you couldn't break Corrigan senior no one can."

"Och, I could break him," said Cowley, "but...due process of law. Besides, what good would it do?"

"One problem occurs to me," said Bodie, wisely ignoring the wider issues, "how do we locate Joanne?"

"We don't need to. She arrived on Doyle's doorstep tearful and homesick just after ten this evening. I haven't told the Corrigans. They've been through enough waiting and hoping. Better for them to find her there."

Taken aback by Cowley's insight, Bodie wondered not for the first time how the older man lived day in, day out with some of the decisions the job demanded of him.

"I'd best be off," Cowley added.

"Have a cuppa first," suggested Bodie. "Five minutes more won't hurt and I expect the Corrigans could use the time together. They'll have a lot to talk about. Do you want me to drive you?"

Taking the mug Bodie handed him Cowley buried his nose in the steam, as close to embarrassment as Bodie had ever seen him. "I don't think that would be a good idea. Doyle made it very clear he doesn't intend to prolong his acquaintance with CI5 when he notified me of Joanne's arrival."

It was obvious Cowley had modified the message as far as he could.

"I can't say I blame him in the circumstances. I'll need to find myself a new squash partner," added Bodie with a flippancy he was far from feeling.

"I handled Doyle badly from the beginning," said Cowley in oblique apology as he finished his tea. "Not many civilians can appreciate the demands of the job."

"No," agreed Bodie, failing to sound philosophical about it as the realisation of how much he was going to miss Doyle's acidic company and their talks into the night seeped in. Nothing profound, just ease and companionship, something he had never quite managed to find with anyone else, man or woman.

"Get yourself home," commanded Cowley gruffly. "You'll be working with Jax on the Corelli operation tomorrow so you'll need all the sleep you can get. Goodnight."

"Right, sir." Bodie stared at the door for several moments after Cowley had left, wishing fiercely he was going to Chelsea for all the lack of welcome that would await him.

 

It was just after two a.m. when Murphy left Chelsea with the Corrigan family and Cowley called off the discreet surveillance on Doyle's Chelsea home, having satisfied himself that the taxi driver Joanne had used had been flagged down in the street rather than summoned via a phone call that could be traced by those she had been staying with. The police had taken Mrs Thomas into custody, the social services the other three girls - not that Joanne would ever know that. Waiting for Doyle to return Cowley turned back into the sitting room, that still seemed to echo with the emotion-filled reunion it had witnessed.

"I'm grateful for the work you put into locating Joanne," he said as Doyle reappeared. "Naturally any expenses you incurred... May I take you up on that offer of a drink now?"

Left with little option Doyle poured him a generous measure and handed it over in silence, willing the other man to leave. For a moment, when he had first seen Cowley on the top step, he had glimpsed the dark head of the man behind him and hoped it was Bodie. He conquered the temptation to ask about the reason for the substitution.

"It's hard to believe Joanne is fourteen," Cowley murmured, almost to himself.

"She's taking refuge in childhood. Give the dust time to settle. Maybe it will all work out. The first few days will be the easiest part. A lot depends on the Corrigans," added Doyle, staring into the leaping flames of the gas fire.

"Do you think it will work? From the little I've seen and heard you managed to strike up quite a rapport with Joanne in a short space of time."

"I was her only link to her family," dismissed Doyle. "I wouldn't like to predict the future. It's not like getting over an accident, these scars will take longer to heal. Perhaps they never will. It's already split a close-knit family in two. And no matter how it's handled every school holiday will be a reminder. Is Corrigan's father going to be charged? I realise you couldn't say much while Joanne was here."

"I got nothing from him. A very cool customer is Henry Corrigan. So unless Joanne is willing to give evidence..." Cowley finished his drink. "Is the cost worth it?"

"That depends if he restricted his attentions to his granddaughter."

"The local police have been informed. He'll be watched - and questioned any time there's trouble."

"Will Bill be watched?"

Cowley gave the younger man a swift glance of approval. "Of course. Mary Corrigan mentioned you'd given them the name of a psychologist who may be able to help the whole family."

"They'll need all the help they can get."

"You went to some trouble considering you felt you were press-ganged into helping us. May I ask why?"

"Certainly but I don't intend to satisfy your curiosity. It's getting late," Doyle added with a pointed look at his watch.

"You came to London as a runaway like Joanne, I imagine. Did you leave home for similar reasons?"

Doyle gave him a look of weary distaste. "I have to work tomorrow even if you don't. I'd like to have at least three hours' sleep before starting it."

"Quite. I have something for you," said Cowley, retrieving the briefcase he had brought with him.

Doyle tensed. "Another tape? How very kind."

"You possess the only copy I know of. No, this is the dossier that was compiled on you. It's no longer required by CI5 and I hoped it might allay your suspicions if you took charge of it. It wasn't," Cowley added, "my intention that you should regard my request for help as a blackmail attempt."

Sparing him a look of disbelief Doyle was flicking through the folder. "All originals, I see. Have you wiped the hard copy - not to mention the backup disk - these were printed from?"

"CI5 does have other calls on its time apart from yourself," snapped Cowley, getting to his feet.

"I had begun to wonder," said Doyle, his expression unforgiving.

"With some cause," acknowledged the Scot. "As our acquaintance has deepened I've begun to feel relieved you didn't choose to join us." He waited until he saw Doyle's eyes widen a little, aware he had stirred the younger man's interest. "My staff are expected to obey orders, sometimes without question. The days of the rebel, even with a cause, are long gone."

"I haven't noticed many signs of blind obedience from your staff," said Doyle, following him out into the hall. 

Half turning, Cowley gave him a quizzical smile. "You've only met Bodie. He doesn't give his trust easily."

"Nice for you. You'll understand when I say I hope we don't meet again."

"You've made your feelings quite plain. As did Bodie when I insisted on asking for your help. I assumed you would be generous and mature enough to realise why. I was wrong."

"Obviously," said Doyle, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

"I think a lot of my staff," continued Cowley with seeming inconsequence. "You know a little of the work they do and the conditions they work in. I demand a lot from them and they rarely let me down. They're never wholly off-duty which can lead to a very lonely social life. Old friends fall by the wayside, new friends are hard to come by. Few people outside the Squad are in a position to understand the demands of the job. Bodie is one of my best agents. In a few years - if he lives that long - he could be the best."

"Nice for him," said Doyle coolly, refusing to react. "It's a heartrending picture you conjure up. No doubt your staff have other compensations. If they don't, perhaps you should consider setting up a lonely hearts club. Goodnight."

Aware he had succeeded in doing nothing but further antagonising Doyle, Cowley conceded defeat and left.

 

Returning to headquarters after a hectic ten days and relieved to discover there was a lull on, having had all the excitement he wanted for a while, Bodie found himself in the rare position of having a whole weekend off-duty rather than being on standby. Entering the near-deserted squad room he found Trevors asleep, Anson checking the racing results and Lucas and McCabe making tea.

"You're back in the land of the living then," remarked Lucas. "How was sunny Birmingham?"

"Don't ask. Not exactly a hive of activity round here, is it?" Bodie added, casting a disparaging glance around the room and shaking his head when McCabe lifted a mug of tea in invitation.

"We knew you were on your way back and saved all the difficult jobs for you. What's all this about you being Cowley's blue-eyed boy?" added Lucas without animosity.

"A foul slander. But if you mean have I had him breathing down my neck for the last five days, all too true. I don't think he's heard of meal breaks - or sleep."

"He runs on batteries, didn't we tell you? Heard you got a result though," said McCabe. "You might have earned yourself a bonus with that one."

"Any news about our pay rise?" asked Bodie, with little expectation

"Yeah, it's still under review. We'll probably get it some time in 1990 at this rate."

"I'll postpone the holiday in Tahiti for a while," sighed Bodie philosophically, having accepted when he joined up that on CI5 rates of pay a day trip to Calais was going to be close to his financial limit. "Anyone fancy a game of squash?"

"Not with you. Can find easier ways to get slaughtered. I thought you usually played with whatsisname - Doyle," said Lucas.

"I did until Cowley had the idea Ray would enjoy doing some unpaid work for CI5 in tracing Joanne Corrigan. Doyle wasn't too happy - thought I'd set him up with Cowley."

"Cowley would send his grandmother out hustling if he thought it would get a result," said McCabe, stirring his tea with his pen. "What made him think Doyle would succeed where we'd failed? Hang on, Ray Doyle. Wasn't he the bloke from Winchester? The ex-hooker?"

Bodie gave a reluctant nod, waiting for McCabe to put two and two together and come close to finding the right answer.

"That's right, I remember now. Interesting bloke from the bit we were digging up. Wish I had a talent for making money," added Lucas wistfully.

"Can understand he wouldn't be too thrilled at being hit over the head with his past," continued McCabe, ignoring the interruption.

"He's a stroppy bugger by all accounts. I'm surprised the two of you got on."

"Thanks," said Bodie dryly.

"I sometimes wonder why we bother," said Lucas, busy with his own train of thought. "The job's screwed up ninety-five per cent of my personal life. Even my bloody mother gets the hump, never mind anyone else. I've lost touch with old mates from the Force, too, They think we're a funny lot in CI5."

"They're not wrong in some cases," interjected McCabe. 

Lucas ignored him with the ease of long practice. "I'm serious. I know there's a life outside CI5 but I'm buggered if I can find it. It's bad enough trying to keep a steady relationship going. As Lisa said just before she walked out, no one works the kind of hours we do."

"I could give you an alibi," McCabe offered, beginning to realise why his partner's temper had been a little erratic over the last few days.

"You?" said Lucas with a hoot of derision. "She couldn't stand you. Understandable, mind." Seeing Bodie was on the point of departure and needing no more than a quick glance at his partner, he added, "Bodie, forget the squash and help us sink a pint or three. Unless you've got a date fixed?"

"Sore point," said Bodie with a grimace. "Fourth time I had to stand her up she walked. Thanks all the same but I could do with some exercise that doesn't involve me being shot at. I'll see you Monday."

"You mean you've got the weekend off!" exclaimed Anson, abandoning his paper.

Because it was expected of him Bodie gave a smug smile. 

"But no one to spend it with. Want to swap, because I have. It was just a thought," Anson added as Bodie's gaze bored through him.

"Not one of your best. 'Night."

"Pub?" said Lucas to his partner.

"Pub," he agreed.

By the close of the evening both men had mellowed into a melancholy resignation about the cost of their chosen career.

"I've been thinking," offered Lucas.

McCabe reluctantly turned his wistful attention from the gorgeous redhead otherwise occupied at another table. "Yeah?"

"You might be a pain in the bum but you're better than no-one."

"Who else would waste an evening listening to your ravings," retorted McCabe, very sleepy-eyed.

"That's what I mean. At least you're someone to talk to, someone who understands what it's all about. Bodie should have a partner."

McCabe gave a crooked grin. "He's had three if you remember. None of them lasted more than six weeks. He isn't partner material. God knows it's taken me long enough to knock you into shape."

"Ah, now that's where you're wrong. I've got a theory," said Lucas sagely.

"Oh my gawd." McCabe took a fortifying mouthful of beer. "Okay, stun me."

"Shurrup, I'm talking. We both know Cowley wanted Doyle to work for CI5, agreed?"

"If you insist," sighed McCabe, who could think of more interesting topics of conversation.

"I reckon he planned to team Doyle with Bodie. It could've worked, too."

"No way. From what I've heard Doyle would've been arguing the toss from dawn to dusk. Besides, an ex-hooker. Give me a break."

"He put me out," Lucas reminded him.

"Fluke."

"Maybe. Maybe not. He's a cool customer. As for his past..." Lucas shrugged. "How many of those on the Squad could bear close examination? 'Cept me of course. I reckon he could be good."

"Bollocks."

"With training. I know about these things."

"Course you do," said McCabe peaceably. "Come on, mate. Off the soapbox. It's chucking out time. Finish your pint and let's go home. It's lucky we walked," he added, pushing his reluctant partner out into the cold night air. 

"That's one way of looking at it," agreed Lucas, shivering and putting his collar up against the rain. "I was meant to be born to a life of luxury."

"Like Anson?" enquired McCabe with interest, an inner alcoholic glow keeping him warm.

"Do me a favour. I don't remember your road being this long," Lucas broke off to complain.

"It wasn't raining when we walked up it, was it," said McCabe with impeccable logic, pausing as they reached Lucas's car. "You're too pissed to drive home."

"It's a wet night to walk," said Lucas, giving him a look of pathos.

"So run instead," said McCabe, hardening his heart.

Lucas ran a wet hand over his wet hair and shivered theatrically. When that failed to work he turned away, his shoulders drooping.

"All right, you can spend the night," said McCabe in a long-suffering tone. "But I'm telling you here and now, you're not sharing my bed again."

"Don't you trust yourself to resist temptation?" enquired Lucas soulfully, but only when he was inside the front door.

Throwing a cushion at him McCabe headed for the shower. 

 

Uncertain what to do with his free weekend, Bodie pulled out his little black book of telephone numbers, flicking through it without much enthusiasm. He felt tired, irritable and lonely and prepared to admit to none of those feelings. Unable to find anyone he wanted to spend time with, he drove off to his old sports club for a workout in the gym.

It did not help his mood to discover his membership had lapsed in the weeks he had been using Doyle's club. Surviving the necessary bureaucracy Bodie made his way to the changing rooms, his mood further deteriorating when he had to wait both for a locker and floor space in the crowded gym. The workout was an exercise in endurance, his body slow to respond to the demands he made of it. Emerging from the club to discover his car had been stolen made the perfect end to a lousy week. Having reported the embarrassing fact to Control and endured the inevitable jokes at his expense, it occurred to him to be grateful for the fact that by a fluke the car was minus the RT and spare ammunition he usually carried in it, in contravention of the rules.

Realising the odds of finding a taxi late on a wet Friday night were remote he began the four-mile walk home. Having half a dozen options regarding his route he found himself in a familiar street walking past Doyle's unlit house. Speeding up, Bodie rounded the corner only to walk into Doyle, his apology fading as they stared at each other in a wary silence.

"Did you want me?" asked Doyle finally.

There was a distinctly guarded look to him rather than the welcome Bodie had subconsciously hoped for. He wondered what his own expression might be betraying. Tempted to tell Doyle the truth, he restricted himself to an innocuous portion of it. "My car was pinched while I was in the gym so I'm walking home."

"Someone nicked a CI5 car? I love it," exclaimed Doyle, his face coming alive.

"It isn't funny."

"You should see it from my angle. God help the country if CI5 can't even protect their own cars."

"You could be right," agreed Bodie, preparing to continue on his way.

The light of the street lamp he was standing under revealed more than he could know. Stepping in front of him Doyle heard himself say, "If you're not in a hurry how about a drink at my place? You're obviously not working."

"Weekend off," said Bodie, determined not to read anything into the ungraciously-voiced invitation.

"You look like you could use it," said Doyle frankly. "You've been busy."

Bodie thought of the girl he had killed that morning: a fanatic ready to die for her cause. Eighteen she'd been, although she hadn't looked it crumpled on the stairs, the Ingram seeming to dwarf her. "You could say that. What are you doing on foot?"

Shooting a quick glance at him Doyle accepted the change of subject. "Tony dropped me off at the junction," he explained, fishing in a pocket for his key.

"Tony?"

"Sullivan. My partner. We're moving offices and I'm trying to force him to get rid of the accumulated junk of eighteen-odd years rather than take it with us. Have you eaten?" Doyle added, tossing his jacket over the banisters and his tie on a chair as he made his way down the hall.

"I'm not hungry," said Bodie, following him into the kitchen.

"That's a first. Hope you don't mind watching me eat because I'm starving. I overslept and missed breakfast and had to work through lunch. The whisky's still under the sink," added Doyle, disconcerted by the other man's muted manner and his own desire to do something about it. He had never heard Bodie without a quick comeback before and although he had been able to recognise the signs of Bodie running high on adrenalin in the past, he'd never seen him look this exhausted, soul sick and...fuckable, he admitted with a helpless twist of lust.

Retrieving the bottle Bodie poured out two large drinks, watching Doyle hunt in the refrigerator, sigh and open the freezer before placing a container in the microwave. "That was quick."

"Courtesy of Mrs Hodges who does for me," Doyle explained, pausing to take a sip of his drink and flex his back. Aware Bodie hadn't touched his own drink he sat opposite him. "Rough week?"

"I thought you weren't interested in CI5?"

"Fine," snapped Doyle. Getting up he began chopping tomatoes and spring onions with venom. Continuing to ignore his now silent companion he answered the call of the microwave and served himself some lasagne in an inelegant but mouthwateringly fragrant heap, tipping some salad next to it.

Bodie's nostrils gave an involuntary twitch, his attention focussed on the plate. His fork poised, Doyle correctly interpreted the mute longing on Bodie's face, sighed and pushed his plate and fork towards him. "It's lucky Mrs Hodges cooks on a large scale," he said, taking another plate and sliding the remnants of the lasagne and salad onto it.

"Sorry. It's been a shit of a week," Bodie admitted. After his second mouthful of food it didn't seem quite as bad as it had five minutes ago. It had been her or him. No choice. Or rather her choice. She'd made the wrong one.

"Anything I'm likely to see on the news?" asked Doyle, eating with a neat dispatch.

"If you do we've been wasting our time. I don't know who Mrs Hodges is but she makes a mean lasagne."

"She's the miracle worker who cleans up this place three afternoons a week, keeps me in food and sees to the washing and ironing."

"You jammy sod."

"I know," said Doyle smugly. "You still hungry?"

Bodie rubbed his nose. "Is it that obvious?"

"Apple pie and ice cream? Cheese and biscuits? Fruit?"

"Great."

"I should've known," sighed Doyle, going back to the freezer. "Rather than sitting there looking decorative you can see to the cheese and biscuits. Stilton's in the pot, Cheddar's in the fridge. Fruit's on the side."

"Where are you moving to?" asked Bodie hurriedly as he complied, needing some distraction from watching Doyle.

"Half Moon Street, if we ever get there. I made the mistake of leaving the arrangements to Tony, who managed to fix it so we move in three days before the builders are due to move out." Serving up the apple pie Doyle found himself talking non-stop; a light, seemingly effortless flow of chatter as he embellished mildly amusing incidents to draw a smile from his companion. His reward came when he heard one of Bodie's black puns. By the time the cheese and biscuits had been reduced to crumbs the thaw was unmistakable.

"I tried ringing you a couple of times," Doyle offered as he made the coffee. "To apologise. I was wrong on a number of counts. I didn't like to leave a message in case it created problems for you."

"Control usually manage to cock any up so it's probably just as well," allowed Bodie, his relaxation total as he watched Doyle potter around the kitchen, enjoying the view gained when he bent to retrieve milk from the refrigerator. "As for the rest, forget it. Cowley would drive a saint to drink at times. I've just had five days of him breathing down my neck. His main problem is the fact he's one hundred per cent involved in CI5 and expects everyone else to be."

"Figures," nodded Doyle, leaning against the sink unit close to where Bodie sat. "Can't say I'd object to getting involved with one member of CI5 myself."

It was a moment before that casual announcement sank in. "I've always liked this room," said Bodie inconsequentially, turning his attention to the pale primrose walls rather than their owner.

Smiling, Doyle handed him a mug of coffee. "You've seen quite a lot of it one way or another. It's time you saw the rest of the house. If you want to."

Looking up abruptly Bodie slowly relaxed again. "I'd like that. This is the first weekend I've had off for months. I didn't expect to enjoy it. Two blissful days," he murmured, giving a long stretch of sleek power.

"Three nights," said Doyle, his coffee forgotten. Spend them with me?"

"I'd like that," repeated Bodie, that part of his mind which wasn't in the present involved in lusty speculations on the near future.

Doyle gave him a crooked grin. "You sound very certain. You may not."

"Then I'll have to go back to my fantasies," said Bodie, raising his mug to toast his companion, his eyes travelling down the length of Doyle's body with open appreciation.

Obligingly Doyle shifted stance a little. "About me?"

"All the time. You were very good. Almost as good as me in fact."

"Yeah? Are you sure you haven't got that the wrong way round?"

"Positive. Me staying over won't muck up your plans with Fiona or anyone, will it?"

"I haven't seen her for a few weeks," said Doyle absently, before he looked up, his face warm with amusement. "You smug bastard, stop fishing."

"Not smug," said Bodie seriously, rubbing Doyle's flank.

"Me neither," Doyle conceded. "I don't know why we're studying the washing up. I'll give you a tour of inspection - starting with the house," he added, watching Bodie's hand move to his inner thigh, warmth to his warmth.

"That part could wait," Bodie allowed.

"So can the other. There's more room for manoeuvre in the bedroom. I don't want to find myself being speared by a fork halfway through the proceedings. I was forgetting," Doyle added from the doorway, "you've probably seen the bedroom while I was out."

"Can we leave CII5 out of this?" requested Bodie plaintively from behind him. "For better or worse this is just you and me."

That simple statement sliding through his defences Doyle nodded his acceptance and got underway again, flicking off lights as he headed for the stairs, very aware of the man behind him.

"You've forgotten the chain and burglar alarm," said Bodie, coming to a halt.

One foot on the bottom stair Doyle half turned. "No I haven't," he corrected in mild exasperation, watching Bodie attend to both. "I wasn't planning to bother with them for once. I thought you said something about forgetting your job?"

"But not about losing my mind."

"I hope you're not always this easily distracted?"

Standing immediately behind him Bodie lifted the curls spilling over Doyle's shirt collar to nuzzle the warm skin of his neck. "Depends," he murmured, one arm going round Doyle to slide their bodies together. Making no real attempt to escape Doyle thrust back, his buttocks snug against Bodie's groin.

Bodie gave an unsteady sigh of pleasure. His mouth an inch from Doyle's ear, his arm forming a relaxed band around the other man's rib cage, he slipped his hand between the edges of Doyle's shirt to rub the small, hard nipples, sifting down the silky body hair. "While you're pushing me with your bum could you give it a bit more energy?"

Doyle gave a more determined thrust and Bodie's eyes glazed over. "I think I'm in heaven."

Slipping free, Doyle mounted two steps before turning from that advantage of height. "Not yet you're not."

Aroused beyond the point of concealment, his cords uncomfortably constricting where it mattered most, Bodie's smile remained fixed. "Is that a promise of things to come or have you changed your mind?" he asked as evenly as he could.

Doyle simply tapped the side of his nose in a knowing fashion and extended his hand.

"You're a tease." There was no accusation in Bodie's voice as he linked their fingers, only anticipation.

"No, just a bit nervous." That unguarded confidence momentarily deprived Bodie of speech.

"Don't be."

"You mean you're not?"

It was impossible to resent the gentle mockery in the green eyes. Bodie didn't even try. "Maybe. A little."

"Come on, hotshot. If you think you can manage the stairs without strangling yourself. Or would you like a hand?"

His attention on the front of Doyle's green moleskins and the flesh thrusting so sweetly against the clinging fabric Bodie lightly traced Doyle's tumescence with his forefinger. "Pot calling the kettle black, isn't it? Except you've got more room for expansion than me. Are you wearing anything under those?"

"If you could bring yourself to move you might find out," said Doyle tartly, capturing both of Bodie's questing hands. "I've never had it away on a staircase and I'm not planning to make this a first. Side by side, I think."

"Whatever position you like," said Bodie happily, causing Doyle to give a choke of laughter before he dragged Bodie up the stairs.

"The bedroom," he announced unnecessarily, giving a dramatic flourish as he switched on the soft lighting.

"Thought I was going to get the full tour," complained Bodie, noticing nothing but the man in front of him.

Captured between Bodie's busy hands, one of which slid down the cleft of his buttocks while the knuckles of the other grazed his sex, Doyle's breath hissed inwards. "You seem to be finding your way around all by yourself. Have you got a fetish about taking your clothes off?"

"None at all but you seem to be doing it for me," said Bodie, his jacket, shirt and cords all unfastened and peeled away by Doyle's nimble fingers.

"Another time I might. Let's try a bit of mutual cooperation first. Get 'em off, Bodie. I want to see you. Oh, nice," breathed Doyle, stroking all visible portions of Bodie as they came into view. Concentrating elsewhere, he almost overbalanced when Bodie relieved him of his second sock.

The bed was large and seemed very soft because they hadn't paused to pull back the thick duvet as they jockeyed for position, rolling and twisting as they explored naked flesh with their mouths and hands.

"I'm too heavy for you."

"Give me a break," scoffed Doyle, tracing down the cleft of Bodie's buttocks, one leg hooked over Bodie's thigh, the other sprawled wide to allow their groins greater contact. "Later, when the time's right I'll remind you why God gave men elbows."

"Oh, is that what they're there for," said Bodie, enlightened. He paused to nuzzle Doyle's mouth, his tongue flicking across Doyle's bottom lip before his head rose.

"Call that a kiss?" scoffed Doyle with gentle derision, his parted teeth threatening a retaliatory nip as they dragged lightly over Bodie's lower lip, his own anticipation reflected back at him in the other man's brilliant eyes.

"Not yet." Rolling onto his back and taking Doyle with him Bodie smiled as Doyle straddled him, his weight on elbows and knees as he leant over him, filling his world. 

"Good kisser are you?" Doyle's voice was a little strained, uncertain if his control would last.

Bodie puckered up his mouth the way a child might, relaxing the pose when Doyle didn't react, continuing to stare at him through unblinking eyes. "You awake?" he checked, his fingers sifting through the curls at the side of Doyle's face.

"Very," said Doyle, biting back a moan as Bodie's fingers slid down the cleft of his parted buttocks, tugging gently at the hairs in passing. His cock gave a responsive jolt, moisture weeping from the tip.

"I thought you might like that. Find out what else you like later."

"Later?" croaked Doyle, prepared to sell his soul by this time; yet to be convinced he hadn't.

"I'm not up to any fancy footwork myself. Tickle our itch first. Side by side I think you said." Bodie's breath caught at the sweet friction when their cocks brushed.

Beginning slowly, they rolled and nuzzled and thrust, finding a clumsy, grinding rhythm, too desperate for anything less. Finishing fast and hard, his face twisting in a silent cry, Doyle's warmth pulsing between them was Bodie's trigger, his lush groan muffled against Doyle's neck.

"Not bad for a first time," Bodie allowed a short while later, having rolled clear of Doyle to slump against the pillows, fighting the urge to sleep.

The beginnings of concern on his face, Doyle's head turned.

"That was your first time? Why didn't you say, I could have - "

"Not mine, ours."

"Ours," Doyle agreed before he quashed his burgeoning sentimentality. "Are you always this chatty afterwards?"

"Is that a subtle hint?"

"Subtlety was the last thing on my mind." Aware of movement beneath him, Doyle found Bodie tugging at the duvet.

"We'll be warmer under it than on it. Shift yourself. The cover's going to need a wash," Bodie discovered, rubbing the dampness with his fingertip.

"That's not the only thing," said Doyle ruefully. "I forgot I'd been hauling furniture around most of the evening."

"Sweet as a rose," Bodie assured him solemnly, grinning as he saw Doyle's look of revulsion. "Stop pretending you're a hero and have a kip. Keep your strength up."

"You're ready to boogie all night, I suppose," said Doyle, clambering under the duvet and punching up his pillow.

"Not right now. Give me an hour or so," Bodie boasted. 

A speculative gaze roamed over him, "I'll hold you to that."

"You can hold whatever you like," Bodie told him drowsily as he snuggled closer, his groin snug in the curve of Doyle's buttocks, a proprietorial hand on Doyle's thigh; it slid round to give Doyle's genitals a friendly pat. "While it's early days, you can relax. I can tell you're going to live up to my fantasies."

"That's a weight off my mind," murmured Doyle sleepily, trying to edge away from his companion's embrace and desisting when Bodie wriggled after him; he was still smiling when he fell asleep.

 

After a reinvigorating doze, Bodie awoke to find the light on, Doyle eyeing him speculatively and the time at two a.m. "I thought you were tired?"

"So did I. I seem to have woken up."

"Don't you just," agreed Bodie, feeling the hardness twitching against his thigh. "Going to take advantage of me in my sleep, were you?"

"Thought about it. Decided it would be more fun if you woke up," said Doyle, continuing his blind reconnaissance beneath the duvet, lacing through springy curls, tickling Bodie's inner thigh before tracing his testicles.

"Damn, that feels... Don't stop. You could have a point," Bodie conceded, stretching to deliver himself into Doyle's hand. "D'you want to fuck me?" he added conversationally.

"I want to try it all with you," said Doyle simply. "No rush. I haven't got anything we can use in the house," he added, betraying the fact his thought processes had been ahead of Bodie's.

"Going to take care of me, are you?" asked Bodie, his cock ramrod straight by now, Doyle's caresses making him shiver and thrust blindly.

"Nothing you won't do for me," said Doyle, peeling away the duvet, his hands sliding in a long swathe down Bodie's torso, pausing to offer a warm tunnel for Bodie's seeking flesh.

"Doesn't sound like a weekend will be long enough," gasped Bodie, his hands clenched in the bedding.

"I'm in no hurry."

"Nor am I," lied Bodie. "Sounds like we both want the same thing, though."

"You're rushing things."

"I just know what I want."

"Realised that much," said Doyle, bending to offer a swirling lick to the just visible head of Bodie's cock trapped within his hands. "You were sending out signals so strong it's a wonder they didn't divert Concorde. Still, now I know you like to take things slow," he added with a wicked grin, offering long, pulling strokes and stopping the moment Bodie's hips moved in involuntary response.

Bodie gave a lush groan, moved encouragingly and discovered Doyle wasn't about to be hurried. "It wasn't that I didn't trust you," he gasped. "But Cowley doesn't know I swing both ways. I intend to keep it that way. With him trying to recruit you it could have got complicated," he finished, his frustrated gaze on hands that were threatening to drive him crazy with their almost imperceptible pressure and stop/start rhythm.

"Ah," said Doyle wisely.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bodie's breath caught midway through the question as Doyle's grasp changed, his powers of concentration wholly centred in his balls by this time.

"That it's an explanation, of sorts. You comfortable?"

Bodie gave him an incredulous glare. "I'll get my revenge for this."

"I'm relying on it. Lie back and think of England. I'll see if I can't do something to relieve the problem," murmured Doyle, his breath a warm, damp stirring over Bodie's mutely pleading cock.

It was the most shattering blow job of Bodie's life, leaving him gasping and spent, one hand slowly relaxing where it was caught in Doyle's hair.

"Bloody hell, that was... I think I've died and gone to heaven."

Gaining no response he managed to raise his head, seeing the strain evident behind Doyle's smile as Doyle shifted uncomfortably.

"Give me a minute and I'll try to return the compliment," said Bodie softly.

"You don't have to," said Doyle quickly.

Bodie caught hold of Doyle's hand before it reached its target. "Want to bet? My mouth's watering."

Unpractised in the art he quickly gagged as he was overtaken by the ferocity of Doyle's need. Withdrawing lest he choke, warmth splattered on his cheek and shoulder. "I'm sorry," he muttered when he judged Doyle to be in any state to hear him.

Wiping Bodie's face clean with his fingers Doyle held his gaze and smiled. "You daft bugger. For what? Sixty-nining isn't everyone's favourite occupation. We don't need to do it if you don't enjoy it."

"I need more practice, that's all," said Bodie, gloomy at having to admit the fact.

"Well I'm in favour, if you're sure - "

"I'm positive. I wanted to make it good for you."

"You were here, weren't you?"

It was a moment before the implication sank in. "You know what the real trouble is - I'm used to be being perfect."

"Silly sod," said Doyle before he kissed him, licking away a trace of semen from Bodie's neck. "It's not a competition."

"That's easy for you to say when you're winning." The corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled, Doyle nodded. "And smug," added Bodie, his palms cupping the living satin of Doyle's buttocks, his fingertips caressing the sensitive under cheek. "Wish I wasn't so knackered," he added wistfully. "Haven't had a chance to show off my good points."

Laughing, Doyle gave him a one-armed hug. "Don't you believe it. I think the fact you're so honest is one of your most endearing characteristics." His face turned into Bodie's shoulder, he missed Bodie's fleeting look of consternation.

"Let's have another kip," said Bodie, dislodging him to retrieve the duvet before cuddling close again.

Tensing, Doyle slowly relaxed although his need for sleep had receded, unused to sharing a bed to sleep in even now, old habits surviving because there had been no one to tempt him into change. He was on the edge of sleep, caught in Bodie's loose embrace, when he heard the sleepy murmur: "Worth every penny of that twenty thousand."

His eyes shot open, wondering if he had heard correctly.

"What was that?"

"Beautiful," added a slurred, contented voice.

Staring out into the darkness Doyle worried his lower lip, wondering if he had imagined that. The velvet job had been the only occasion he'd attracted a fee of that magnitude: how could Bodie know about it? The prince and his staff were dead, including David, with whom he had been stupid enough to fall romantically in love. And yet... Suspicion growing in him Doyle took a deep breath, wanting to be proved wrong.

"David?" Gaining no response he sharpened his voice, repeating the name.

"Can't it wait till morning? Night."

The sleeping man warming his back, Doyle stared out into the darkness, trying to make sense of what he had heard. Bodie was David? He couldn't be. David was dead. But why should William Bodie answer to that name - and how did he know about the twenty thousand pounds?

His emotions in a turmoil Doyle wriggled free of his companion's embrace to lie on his back, reviewing what he knew of Bodie's past: army, then CI5. It wasn't a lot. From their conversations it was obvious Bodie knew many of the cities of Europe better than he did. That much travelling would be difficult on army pay, Bodie's tours of duty outside England limited to Northern Ireland. He'd said nothing of his childhood or adolescence or family and for someone who could offer an effortless stream of conversation, bad jokes and sharp-edged one-liners, he gave little away. But he couldn't be David because Doyle would have recognised him at some point in the months they'd been seeing one another. Besides, David had died.

Or so you thought, Doyle reminded himself, recalling the few hours they had shared more than six years ago; he remembered long silky hair, smooth skin and a beard. Long hair and a beard were easily disposed of. David had supported Liverpool and kissed the back of his neck. So did and had Bodie. Come to think of it, he had chosen the name David when they searched the streets for Joanne. David had wanted to see him again, had wanted... Bodie obviously had more than a one night stand in mind, betraying all the signs of a man about to stake his claim. David had a scar down his back, the injury deep enough for him to have felt it in the muscle pad of the shoulder blade. Bodie? Unable to remember, having overloaded his sensory input over the last few hours, Doyle turned to study the softly breathing man next to him. It was some time before Bodie moved in his sleep, Doyle encouraging him to curl on his right side. A scar ran down Bodie's left shoulder blade, only a faint indentation of the skin betraying its presence now; after six years that wasn't surprising.

His expression hardening Doyle rolled away from his companion, his mind busy for what was left of the night. Afraid of the strength of his anger and the sense of betrayal underlying that emotion he made no attempt to wake Bodie, leaving the bed as the sky began to lighten.

"D'you always wake up this early?" asked Bodie, looking less than debonair as he emerged from the duvet he had been buried under. Showered, shaved and dressed, Doyle remained by the window.

"It's nearly nine o'clock. I didn't realise you wanted to sleep the weekend away, especially as you're paying for it."

"Mmn." Hauling himself up the mattress, the heaviness of his sleep still upon him, Bodie didn't feel adequate to tackling that one. "I could murder a cup of coffee," he announced, running a hand back through his hair and causing it to stick up in small tufts.

"There's one on the floor next to you," said Doyle, hardening his heart against the impulse to join him. He had come to prize honesty over most other traits and had thought Bodie prized it too. If Bodie was David, who had promised so much... With no wish to remember his naivety of six years ago Doyle abruptly changed tack. If Bodie was David and knowing him had said nothing, he had a lot to answer for.

"You're a mate," said Bodie, leaning over the side of the bed to pick it up and showing more signs of life under its reviving influence. "That's better."

"D'you reckon we're mates?"

Halfway to the bathroom by this time, Bodie paused. "Is anything wrong?"

"Not a thing." Doyle waited until Bodie was at the door before he called out sharply, "David!"

Turning, Bodie realised which name Doyle had used and grimaced, breath leaking from him.

"So I was right. I wondered why some of our conversations should seem so familiar, now I know. Hello, David. Long time, no see."

Aware of the inimical light in Doyle's eyes Bodie stood his ground only with some effort. "I can explain."

"I'm glad to hear it. I've always enjoyed a good story."

"I need to take a leak. I'll explain...that is, I won't be a minute."

Bodie was gone for seven. Doyle timed him, unsurprised when Bodie re-emerged dressed in his clothes of the previous day which Doyle had collected up from where they were littered across the floor, wanting no further reminders of his idiocy.

"I know you're entitled to be angry but it isn't the way it seems," Bodie began.

"That's good. Convince me."

Even as he made it Bodie knew his explanation sounded lame in the extreme: a wimpish attempt to escape terminal embarrassment with Cowley. He neglected to mention the efforts he had made to trace the man he had known only as Ray, or the fact that seeing Doyle in Winchester had caused him to freeze for those vital few seconds. Watching Doyle's expression harden, and enjoying being put in the wrong no more than the next man, he added one fatal sentence more. "It didn't occur to me you'd remember David."

"Really? Why's that?"

"It wasn't as if you even saw me and...after six years. I was only one in a long, long line." He faltered under Doyle's unwavering stare, knowing he had gone wrong but not how.

"Unfortunately I have a good memory. I remember David. He's the man I thought died with his boss in Rome."

Bodie was too far along his own train of thought to take up his cue. "You got that close to finding me?"

Doyle took numbness for appalled horror. "Don't worry, I wouldn't have embarrassed you in front of your friends," he said, bitter at his own naivety. One in a long, long line obviously summed up Bodie's feelings on the subject. So much for his delusions.

"No," said Bodie, trying to come to terms with the fact Doyle had obviously searched for him as he had tried to find Ray.

"That's very trusting of you. I'm not quite so trusting. You'd better take this before you leave, I'm a great believer in the cash on delivery method of payment."

Bodie found himself holding an itemised bill for services rendered, complete with a charge for his cup of coffee. Confusion and guilt gave way to a ripple of anger. "You imagine I'm going to pay this?"

"I know you will," said Doyle, slowly straightening from where he had been perched on the windowsill.

"Or you'll go to Cowley, I suppose," said Bodie, a cynical twist to his mouth.

"Crudely put but essentially correct."

"You blackmailing bastard. No one's worth this kind of money."

"You thought I was worth twenty thousand quid last night."

Unable to remember that, Bodie had no intention of admitting as much. "A man will say anything after a blow job that good. And you were, sunshine. Maybe I should see the rest of your price list."

"Dream on. You couldn't afford me."

"Try me," invited Bodie, his face pale with temper.

Doyle responded to that challenge without a thought to the consequences. "The cost will depend on what you have in mind."

"What are my options?"

"Zero without a lot of cash upfront. And I don't take credit cards or rubber cheques."

"You'll get it," promised Bodie, hearing the bite of Doyle's voice with distinct satisfaction. "What are my options?"

Doyle didn't even hesitate. "Hand jobs will cost three hundred pounds, the price of a blow job and frotting is on the list. Seven hundred pounds for a prostate massage, two thousand pounds if I fuck you. More if you want to spend some time working up to it," he added with all the interest of one reeling off a shopping list. "If you get your rocks off with pain or pissing go elsewhere. I don't do fetishes either."

Bodie didn't even blink. "What if I want to fuck you?"

"You'll be unlucky," retorted Doyle, angrily aware of a stir of arousal at the thought.

"Everyone has a price. What's yours? Or are you afraid I'll be too much for you?"

All too conscious of the trap his temper had led him into and aware of the dangerous pull of the other man's personality Doyle managed to smile, relying on a half-forgotten acting technique to see him through. "It isn't for sale. Whore I may be, I'm also selective."

"Oh, I could tell that," said Bodie sarcastically, raking the other man with a contemptuous gaze.

"Ten thousand."

"For one hour?" said Bodie incredulously.

"Ten at night till eight in the morning, coming as many times as you can manage. If I decide to take the job."

"You'll take it."

Doyle studied him in lingering detail, to the point where he saw Bodie's cords betray the state of his arousal. "You could be right. Cash in advance."

"How do I know you'll deliver?"

"Because I just told you so."

"And naturally your word is your bond," said Bodie, watching Doyle's eyes narrow. "I'll have the money by ten o'clock tonight," he added in the mood where he would bankrupt himself rather than back down, no longer caring where it had all gone wrong.

"Where?"

"Where what?" asked Bodie blankly, already wondering how he was going to raise that kind of money.

"Where do you want to do it?"

"Where d'you think?"

"Your flat then."

"No!" The force of Bodie's denial was instinctive.

"Why not?" Braced for further insult, Doyle waited.

"Because it's a high-security flat, that's why not."

"I've got clearance. You should know."

"Six months old. And that isn't why. Everyone on the Squad undergoes routine surveillance at irregular intervals."

"I'll wave to the bloke in the bushes."

"That can include electronic surveillance," mumbled Bodie with his first trace of awkwardness.

"So?" said Doyle, enjoying the other man's discomfiture.

"The bloody flat could be bugged! Whatever you might be used to, I don't do floor shows."

The insult hardly registered. "You let CI5 invade your privacy to that extent?"

"It isn't a case of choice. Even Cowley's under surveillance at times."

"I bet that's exciting," said Doyle absently, aware of a perverse twist of disappointment that he wouldn't be teaching Bodie a thing or two after all.

"That's why I don't use my flat much," explained Bodie, trying to subdue his untimely grin of appreciation.

Doyle stared moodily at the opposite wall. "Where do you want to do it then?"

"Here, of course."

Refocusing, Doyle gave him a look of disbelief. "You must be joking."

His vehemence took Bodie aback. "Why?"

"This is my home. I don't work from home. No one comes here that I don't invite here."

"What about me?"

"You weren't a client last night."

"You mean you never have sex at home?" said Bodie incredulously.

"What I do for pleasure is my concern. What we're discussing is business."

"I still don't understand why we can't use this place," said Bodie, failing to make the distinction because a part of him still hoped this was a sour joke on Doyle's part.

"No? Would you crap on your dining room floor?" asked Doyle in the same dispassionate tone.

The crude imagery silenced Bodie for a moment. "You're as silver-tongued as ever I see. I'm not risking using a hotel and getting nicked. It's here - unless you're looking for an excuse to cop out because you're afraid."

Doyle's eyebrows rose, his smile travelling no farther than his lower jaw muscles. "Of you? I'll see you here at ten this evening - with the cash. You can find your own way out," he added, strolling into the bathroom adjoining his bedroom very casually in case the movement should be interpreted for the retreat he knew it to be.

 

Having cleared his bank and building society account and hocked every possession capable of fetching a decent price Bodie still had to take out a personal loan. At one minute to ten on Saturday night he stood on Doyle's doorstep, his hands damp, his expression guarded.

Opening the door Doyle studied him unenthusiastically for a moment before stepping aside to allow him access. "Unless you'd rather use another room you know where the bedroom is. No point in hanging around. Time is money after all. Your money," he added pointedly.

Bodie stalked past him, his temper precariously leashed. Tonight he noticed details in the large room Doyle used for his own: cream walls, pale chocolate carpet, the spacious effect increased by the lack of clutter and unnecessary furniture. Two abstracts hung on the wall. His interest in art minimal at the best of times Bodie didn't spare them a glance, his attention attracted by more personal items. The bed had been changed, clean towels and a small assortment of packages on the cabinet beside it.

"Gosh, clean sheets. You're spoiling me. I hope they won't be counted as an extra," he remarked acidly as he removed his jacket, aware that the prickle of sweat down his back owed little to the warmth of the room.

"On the house. You have the cash?"

Reaching into his inside pocket Bodie produced a fat bundle of fifty pound notes held together by an elastic band and tossed it over. "Don't forget to count it."

Already flicking through the money Doyle spared him an admonitory glance before throwing it onto the chair. "To business then. Is this room okay or would you prefer somewhere else - shower, bath, kitchen, a table, the floor, sofa? Stairs, if you like."

"The bed will do."

"Bit conservative, aren't you? All done by numbers, is it?" asked Doyle. Very close to Bodie by this time he leant forward, closing the door with the flat of his hand, savagely satisfied when he saw Bodie twitch. His palm remained flat against the light oak until Bodie stepped back a pace to reduce their proximity.

"We can't all be as inventive as you. Not that I've seen much indication of that."

"Fair comment," agreed Doyle, his control total. "As you're calling the tune how would you like to start?" he continued, eyeing Bodie in the manner of a butcher assessing an interesting carcase.

Sweat damp at his armpits Bodie leant back against the closed door, hardly recognising this taunting figure as the man he had come to know. "Ray, I - "

"Shall I strip now, or would you rather do that for me? You tear this shirt, you pay for it though. The choice is yours, I'm here to please." Anything less conciliatory it was hard to imagine.

Slowly walking round Doyle's motionless figure with a nonchalance he was far from feeling Bodie studied him in lingering detail, from the soft, white leather boots to the faded denims which clung tighter than a grape skin over a grape, the creases arrowing into the groin highlighting the genitals. Wasting little attention on the turquoise silk shirt, Bodie's gaze lingered on a whorl of brown hair wisping over it where the top three buttons were unfastened, travelling up the strong, clean lines of Doyle's throat until he reached Doyle's face. While his mouth, which might have been designed for oral sex, offered an invitation, it was negated by the challenging, inimical light in his eyes: you want me, you'll have to take me - if you can. Bodie wanted him more than he had ever wanted anyone.

"Not very chatty, are you," remarked Doyle. "Maybe I should remind you what's on offer. You'll want to decide on your programme - fast or slow, rough or easy. Choice is yours. Or are you after something a little heavier? That's why you're here, isn't it, for something a little different." The slick, soft-voiced stream of suggestion that followed was in marked contrast to Doyle's usual manner as he slowly began to strip, imbuing every mundane button and catch with an unthought-of sensuality. He even seemed to slide out of his jeans. Throughout, his clear, cold gaze never left Bodie's face, assessing and challenging in one.

"Not decided yet, sir? Take your time, you have all night." Naked by this time save for his attenuated briefs, Doyle was prowling around Bodie, his straight-backed arrogant stalk that of a man at ease with himself and his body. Bodie rammed his sweating hands into his pockets.

Hooking his thumbs under the elastic of his briefs Doyle eased them down. Stepping out of them, the scrap of crimson fabric hung from his fingertips.

"They're still warm," Doyle said softly, catching them in one hand and squeezing them gently. "Would you like to sniff them? No?" The briefs fluttered to the floor. "You want my shoes, leather jacket? I can't offer you rubber, I'm afraid. Maybe this will do instead." As he spoke he was posing, displaying genitals, buttocks, chest and belly before returning to his genitals, his long fingers stroking and teasing himself - and the man opposite him.

"You like this? That's good," continued the soft, sibilant whisper. "What is it you want? Want me to talk dirty, about what you'll be doing to me in a minute? You're going to make me beg for it, I bet."

Swallowing, Bodie struggled to ignore the rough caress of the manipulative voice offering an endless stream of suggestion.

Continuing his parade around the room Doyle encouraged his cock to a state of eagerness with long self-indulgent strokes. Each time he drew closer to Bodie, first behind him, then in front, at one side, then the other. When finally he came to a halt they were so close they shared body heat. Thrusting against Bodie's corduroy-clad groin, he cupped Bodie's buttocks, squeezing them once, hard.

"You want this? Or should I turn round so you can have at me, if you can," he added disparagingly.

Murderously angry by this time Bodie's blow found only air, although Doyle was still tantalisingly close.

"Naughty," Doyle chided. "The really rough stuff costs extra. But as it's you... Ah, with you it'll be a pleasure won't it? It's lucky you're so strong," he cooed, scooping up the leather belt he had been wearing and offering it draped over his outstretched palms.

It was the last straw. This time Bodie's blow connected, all his power behind it. He was naked from the waist down before Doyle had skidded along the carpet on his bare backside, only half-conscious. Fiercely aroused Bodie wasted little time on the niceties, applying a token blob of cream to himself, another between Doyle's reddened buttocks.

"Is this what you wanted?" he grated, his angry breath fanning the back of Doyle's neck.

Trapped beneath Bodie's weight, memory hurled Doyle back thirteen years to the last time he had found himself this helpless. Closing his eyes he subdued the impulse to offer the resistance that had been beyond his fifteen-year-old frame. "You guessed it."

Struggling to raise himself in order to improve Bodie's angle of entry, wanting this over quickly, he found himself pushed and held down with a strength he had underestimated. As strong thumbs dug into the muscle of his buttocks he gave a gasp, unconsidered fear swamping everything when he felt the touch change. He managed to control it only to the degree he didn't fight his way free but relaxation and participation were beyond him as his legs were farther parted, his face scraping the carpet.

Seconds later both men's breathing hissed inwards, Bodie suffering as much if not more than Doyle.

"Shit! You're tighter than a camel's arse in a sandstorm!"

"What did you expect," grunted Doyle, his voice tight with discomfort as he changed position, meeting no resistance on this occasion, "Blackwall Tunnel?"

"What I'm paying for is cooperation," snarled Bodie.

Trying and failing again, he sank back on his heels, one hand on his aching prick.

"You want me to do everything?" asked Doyle acidly, uncramping his rigid-tendoned hands from the carpet.

"For ten thousand quid it would be nice if you did something. This isn't working. Turn onto your back."

Grimly determined, Doyle turned, grasping his own knees, already knowing they were doomed to failure.

No more than half-erect by this time Bodie didn't even attempt penetration, resisting the urge to massage his sore penis. Slapping Doyle's knees down he glared at the man awaiting his next command; knowing he had paid for the right to be obeyed brought him no pleasure at all.

"Ride me," he said, sullen determination having overtaken lust.

Rather than straddling him immediately Doyle rose to his feet and walked away.

"Where d'you think you're going?" demanded Bodie, his hot, blue stare on the clench and flex of Doyle's backside, the long line of thigh and glimpse of heavy genitals, Doyle's erection long since banished.

"To earn my fee," said Doyle evenly, collecting up the pot of Vaseline Intensive Care lotion. "Some more of this should do the trick." Standing over Bodie as he unfastened the lid he paused, studying the other man. "I'll ride you, but in case you hadn't realised, I need a target to aim for." He gave Bodie's limp penis a meaningful look.

"I'm sure you'll think of something to stir my interest," snapped Bodie but he couldn't meet Doyle's gaze. His own eyes closed as skilful fingers began to work on him, lavishing attention on his balls and prick until Bodie shrugged him away. "That's enough," he said gruffly. 

"Whatever you say." Anointing first Bodie, then himself, Doyle disdained to ask for some very necessary help.

"Give that pot to me," said Bodie impatiently, gathering up a huge dollop of cream. He winced when Doyle presented his rump, the left cheek of which was scarlet from the friction burn it had acquired. Giving the grazed area an unpremeditated caress, Bodie scooped up another massive helping full of lotion to lavish attention where it was needed most, Doyle's anus and the surrounding flesh looking very sore.

Entry was difficult even for one slick finger, not least because Bodie was shaking. Knowing no one could fake this level of tension, or the fear that induced it, the remnants of his anger dissolved faster than the cream against the warmth of Doyle's skin.

"Ease up, Ray. It'll be okay, you'll see." Murmuring throughout, although most of the time he couldn't have said what, Bodie took it slowly and very carefully, pausing each time he felt the muscle spasms grab at his finger before coaxing inwards. Using more lotion and two fingers he found Doyle's prostate, rewarded when he felt the jolt of sensation hit Doyle like an electric charge. Immediately Doyle tried to escape.

"Not this time," said Bodie, twisting his fingers back over Doyle's prostate. Closing his eyes he relied solely on touch: the tight internal sensations sent by his fingers and those received by his hand which offered a secondary sensation to Doyle's now blood-engorged cock as he writhed, trapped between the twin forces. Wanting to make this the most intense climax Doyle had ever known, and to banish the fear he was still fighting, Bodie offered every caress and touch he knew to please and tantalise. Bucking and twisting, Doyle's head arched back as he came with a sound closer to pain than pleasure, leaving Bodie feeling like a rapist rather than a lover.

"Well thanks for nothing," said Bodie, his own throat tight as he sank back on his heels. "How much more are you going to charge for some enthusiasm?"

Still shaking, trying to collect himself, Doyle sat up slowly, the long, beautiful lines of his spine to Bodie, his shoulders achingly straight. "That can't be bought, or hadn't you realised?"

"How could I, I don't have your experience in these matters," said Bodie, feeling sick, shaken and ashamed without understanding why.

Doyle did nothing more than draw an unsteady breath. "I should be open enough to suit even you by now. You'd better get on with it."

"And scrape myself raw in the process? No thanks. How much did you charge the last poor sucker?"

"Twenty thousand," said Doyle tonelessly.

"Twenty thousand?" echoed Bodie, an odd note to his voice as he stared at his companion's back. "Oh christ." He stopped himself reaching out just in time, his hand closing on air when he realised the measure of his mistake.

"I must've been mad to think - "

" - you could go through with it," completed Bodie, understanding now. "No wonder you were so livid when I assumed - You never sold this, did you?" Helplessly he patted Doyle's flank.

Mistaking bewildered pain for smug satisfaction, and that gesture as one of ownership, Doyle swung around, his face contorted.

"I've never bloody sold it," he shouted, in rage betraying the truth he had hidden so well. Every emotion and defence stripped bare by his body's traitorous betrayal and Bodie 's victory over it, he had no idea he was crying until moisture trickled down his cheek. Scrubbing it away with the back of his hand, his wet-eyed glare dared Bodie to comment when he had to repeat the action moments later.

The sight telling Bodie all he needed to know, he hugged Doyle close, so close Doyle couldn't stiff-arm him away. "You stubborn, independent little git. Stop fighting me. You know bloody well I never wanted it to be like this between us."

"Stop giving me orders," snapped Doyle, arming Bodie away when he finally managed to free himself. But the tears refused to stop, perhaps because they should have been shed by a beaten and raped fifteen-year-old and hadn't.

"Will you just listen to me!" yelled Bodie in exasperation, refusing to be got rid of. "You're certifiable, the risks you take. Even I tried to rape you. If it hadn't been so painful I would have. You could've got yourself killed. You're going to have a hell of a bruise tomorrow," he added remorsefully, touching Doyle's swollen jaw with gentle fingers.

Giving a long, lush sniff, Doyle bristled like an angry alley cat as he scrubbed his face dry again. "You dumb crud. If it hadn't been you I wouldn't have been in the bloody position for this to happen."

"Eh? What did I do?" asked Bodie with a trace of indignation.

"Don't you understand anything?" snarled Doyle, still fizzing with emotion. "No one else would've got their toe over the fucking doorstep, that's why!"

"I must be thick because I don't understand. But I intend to," Bodie promised grimly.

"You would," said Doyle, taking an unsteady breath, feeling far too vulnerable for his own liking.

"Why don't you bring anyone home to your bed?" asked Bodie gently when Doyle showed no signs of saying anything else.

"None of your business," said Doyle, mopping himself clean with his shirt.

"That's a lie for a start. Come off it, Ray. You know damn well it is."

One hand going to his jaw, finding speech uncomfortable and shouting decidedly painful, Doyle gave him a dark look. "Be difficult to forget," he mumbled.

"Then why?" His need to understand evident on his face, Bodie waited. It was obvious he would wait all night if need be.

"Oh, bloody hell," muttered Doyle, conceding defeat. "Because when I was a kid on the streets the only thing I had that was mine was a crummy bedsit. No one was allowed in. I must've got too used to guarding my privacy. It's never been a problem until now. Most people," he gave Bodie a pointed look, "prefer to be on their own home ground anyway."

"They don't work for CI5."

"I must've been mad," repeated Doyle, sounding hard-done-by and put-upon.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I want to know why I woke up this morning being handed a sodding price list. I could've killed you for that alone, never mind the act you put on tonight," added Bodie, his expression hardening.

Unintimidated, Doyle met his glare head-on. "You expected to meet a whore, I gave you the performance you expected."

"Didn't you just," agreed Bodie dryly, before he slumped a little. "You mean that isn't how you used to come on with clients?"

Doyle ignited faster than a rocket on Guy Fawkes night. "You think I'd sell myself to a fetish freak? For your information the velvet job was the closest I ever got - and that was only because the idea of being fucked on the job terrified me. I don't like being afraid. Not that it's any of your business."

"Yes it is. And don't glare at me like that. I know the risks of being fucked by a stranger. I also know you. Was that the only reason, or was it because you'd have to relinquish control? Just now... I wanted to make it good for you. The best. I feel like... I might just as well have raped you. But then I took away your control, didn't I?"

Bodie's obvious misery was all that stopped Doyle from annihilating him. "Maybe." Every defence flattened, he offered the truth. "All right, yes. Whatever I did as a whore, I was in control. I've heard people who think sucking a bloke off is degrading. For me it's power. Total power. And I used it." Seeing Bodie flinch, Doyle sank back on his heels, running a hand back through his hair. "I didn't think I needed that in my private... Maybe it's a habit," he added slowly, forced to examine his own motives and only half accepting the unattractive picture he saw.

Bodie swallowed everything he wanted to say, knowing they were picking their way through a potential minefield; he had learnt to make silence work for him.

"I was good at manipulating clients," continued Doyle unwillingly, driven into speech by something he didn't understand. "So good that most of them never realised. Maybe that's all I'm good for. I don't know if I can change. I don't see why I should," he added, preparing to rise. "What does it matter?"

Bodie's hands thumped onto his shoulders. "If it didn't matter neither of us would be here, would we?" he burst out in frustration, not knowing what to say or do.

Aware of the weight and warmth on his shoulders Doyle scowled, shrugged and relaxed. "I suppose not."

"Only you could be so pig-headed," sighed Bodie, his fingers kneading Doyle's shoulders now. "I know how I sounded earlier. I meant to. I didn't believe you'd carry that act through. When you did... I've never backed away from a challenge in my life."

"You weren't supposed to," said Doyle, but it was clear the admission surprised him because he blinked self-consciously and looked away.

"I bet you were an arrogant little bastard on the streets," said Bodie with a grin that only widened when Doyle scowled at him. "You haven't changed in that respect. No wonder Cowley's harping on about your past aggravated you so much."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Doyle, very much on his dignity and not caring for Bodie's flashes of insight at all.

"How do you see yourself, Ray?"

"Eh?"

"Come off it, you know what I mean."

"I'm me, Ray Doyle, take me or leave me," he shrugged. 

Staring at him Bodie realised that wasn't wholly the defence mechanism it might first appear; it helped to explain how Doyle had survived. "I was right," he murmured. "Okay, it's a deal. I'll take you."

"Well I hope you have more luck this time," said Doyle with a sharp-edged flippancy.

On his feet, Bodie began prowling around the room, his irritation obvious before he spun round to glare at Doyle. "You don't like people making assumptions about you. But you never stop making them yourself. Particularly about me. If that's what you really think I may as well leave now."

When Doyle said nothing he began collecting up his clothes. "Give it a rest," growled Doyle, kicking one of Bodie's shoes under the bed but refusing to commit himself more openly.

"I suppose that's an invitation to stay," mused Bodie, who had no intention of going anywhere. "Listen, sunshine, when we finally get it together it isn't going to be like that between us."

"You sound very sure of that," said Doyle, thumping onto a chair and half rising when the contact proved to be painful. One hand clapped to his left buttock he glared at Bodie.

"Don't expect sympathy, you earned it. I'm sorry about..." Bodie stared at his hands. "I've never finger raped anyone before either. Are you all right?" He looked up to find Doyle handing him a drink.

"You didn't start tonight. Everything else, mind. I'm confused, embarrassed and irritable as hell. That aside ... I must be bloody mad," he muttered, taking a large gulp of whisky.

"Why are you embarrassed?"

"You can't imagine? For a so-called professional I put up one hell of a show, didn't I? I'm not in the habit of sobbing my heart out either." It was clear the memory rankled.

"Don't be daft," said Bodie, not daring to wonder how fatuous he might sound "But if you ever need to, I'm here."

Severely disconcerted when he recognised the shy light in his companion's eyes Doyle took another gulp of whisky, coughed and set the glass down. "You're as mad as I am," he said with conviction.

Wholly relaxed by now Bodie didn't attempt to touch him. "Realised that back in June when I opened that hotel door and saw you. Thought I'd got you out of my system, you see. I'm not in the habit of freezing on the job."

"Are you blaming me?"

"Will you just shut up and listen?" begged Bodie. "I should've taken your phone number instead of rushing off. As it is I came round in hospital in Rome to discover that everyone who knew it had been murdered." Seeing Doyle's mouth open he hastily told him everything, including things he had never told Cowley. His explanation wasn't particularly lucid and it tended to jump around a lot but by the time he had finished Doyle knew all there was to know about Bodie's attempts to find him. And it melted him. Bodie watched it happen. Not that he expected Doyle to admit as much. Not yet. He had learnt that much tonight. But then if Ray hadn't cared he wouldn't have presented that outrageous price list, or the performance he thought was expected of him. The fact Doyle obviously resented this intrusion into his emotional life didn't faze Bodie at all, he knew he could handle that.

At something of a loss under the barrage of information Doyle continued to stare at Bodie, fighting the sentimental urges creeping up on him. "You staked out Luigi's?" he said at last.

"It was the only lead I had. Remembered the prince saying he'd seen you lunching there."

"Must have been the one and only time. Place is a poseur's delight," said Doyle absently, blind to the affection in Bodie's grin.

"So it might be. I can think of better things to reminisce about than restaurants. We may as well talk in comfort. I'm getting chilly. I don't know what this window seat's covered in but it's making my balls itch." Unselfconsciously rubbing the afflicted area Bodie was gratified to notice he had attracted Doyle's full attention; he intended to keep it that way. "When I think of the money I spent on private detectives... If it hadn't been for the security surrounding Housecalls I would have found you six years ago. There again, six years ago it might not have worked. Will you get into bed?" he added in exasperation.

"Why not?" Asserting his independence Doyle sank onto the duvet with due care for his sore backside and tried not to shiver.

Undeceived, Bodie tossed a free portion of the duvet in his lap. "I wasn't sure what I wanted then, except that I had to see you again. Considering you were less than encouraging I don't know how it happened but... I fell for you. You were nearly the death of me in Winchester."

"Might have known it would be my fault. You really recognised me that fast?" added Doyle, slanting a surreptitious glance at him.

"Of course I did."

"Oh." To gain himself some time Doyle rubbed his nose, scratched his shoulder and fiddled with the duvet before running out of distractions. "Maybe I did overreact a bit," he conceded, with no audible sign of regret.

"A bit? You ever pull a stunt like that on me again and - It hurt," said Bodie simply. In the circumstances he wasn't surprised when Doyle looked away. "Maybe I'm pushing too fast for your liking but I'm not going to pretend you don't matter to me because you do. This time I've got a better idea of what I'm getting."

"You think you do."

"I bet you were a bulldog in a previous life," sighed Bodie.

"You believe in all that stuff?"

"Never mind what I believe in. I know you never let go of an idea. I lied when I didn't tell you who I was. There were good reasons for that. Is it so hard to trust me?"

Making the mistake of looking into Bodie's eyes Doyle was lost. "This is stupid," he said a few minutes later, disentangling himself from the embrace he had initiated, one hand going to his protesting jaw. "It won't work. It can't."

"There's nothing like positive thinking."

Doyle gave his uncooperative companion an irritable glance. "I'm not saying we can't have some fun together but let's not - "

"I'm not asking you to pretend to feel anything you can't," interrupted Bodie, "so don't ask it of me. I think it would."

Disconcerted by that unexpected severity and beginning to believe Bodie was serious, Doyle didn't know what to do, wary of trusting his own emotions, never mind anyone else's. "What makes you think you're my type?" he demanded, taking the war into the enemy's camp.

Aware he was on a winning streak Bodie stroked Doyle's swelling penis.

"That's not love," snapped Doyle.

"I didn't claim it was," replied Bodie mildly, "but it's a happy bonus. When was the last time you cried?"

The abrupt question caught Doyle off-guard. "None of your business. Anyway, I didn't. A while," he heard himself say weakly a moment later.

Bodie gave him an approving beam. "See, you are learning. I know my keeping quiet at Winchester looked bad but by the time they let me out of hospital Cowley had you in custody and - "

"And that's another thing. You could have put me in the clear with Cowley in ten seconds flat," said Doyle darkly, obviously warming to his theme.

Bodie silenced him by the simple expedient of kissing him, carefully because of Doyle's swollen jaw.

"And that's no way to win an argument," grumbled Doyle, crawling under the duvet next to him. "Well don't just sit there grinning like an idiot. I'm knackered even if you aren't. Put out the light."

"Yes, dear," said Bodie meekly.

"Cretin." But Doyle made no protest when Bodie snuggled around him, both men asleep within seconds.

 

Waking in a heated tangle of limbs and pre-dawn dimness it became clear they both shared a common aim. This morning their lovemaking was unpremeditated and unhurried, an easy exchange rather than an embittered battle. At one point Doyle flicked on the light. "In case one of us gets lost," he explained innocently before he groaned as Bodie tongued his testicles.

But it was Bodie, starfished across the bed some time later, who screamed at the incredible sensations centred at his groin. Opening his eyes, he was in time to see himself sinking into the other man's body, Doyle poised above him. Hands clenched in the bedding, every muscle braced, Bodie gritted his teeth and fought the imperative to thrust, the near snarl on Doyle's face telling him the cost of his pleasure.

"Don't! I can't stay still."

"Try," grunted Doyle, his expression already easing as he tilted forwards infinitesimally, sinking Bodie an inch or so deeper. A shudder of reaction turned to a ripple of pleasure; his cock twitched.

The tendons of his neck corded, muscles locked, Bodie was sweating heavily as he stared up, his eyes bleak, realising that once again Doyle was in control. A bitter twist to his mouth he closed his eyes and tried to conquer his errant breathing, whimpering as Doyle's buttocks settled in his groin.

"Christ, it's been a while since... Swear I can feel you under my heart. Bodie?"

At breaking point, Bodie opened his eyes. Behind the confidence he saw uncertainty, behind the challenge a yearning need.

"Ready when you are," he gasped, prepared to concede the battle if in the long run he could win the war for Doyle's trust.

"No. This isn't...you're hurting."

"What...did you expect?" Bodie demanded breathlessly, with some justification. He gave a groan of frustration when the wonderful, tantalising sensations were taken from him as Doyle rose with the same care with which he had descended. A moment later Doyle was on his back, reaching for him.

Altruism having reached breaking point Bodie required no further invitation, sheathing himself in one long, sure thrust A twinge of protest made him open his eyes to discover himself deep within Doyle, who was bent almost double under him. Aching to complete the act, Bodie gave a near sob of frustration, terrified of the damage he might already have done.

The fingers digging into the muscles of his back tightened. "You stop," Doyle panted, "and I'll brain you."

"You're sure?"

Hooking one ankle over his calf and using Bodie as his anchor Doyle dragged him impossibly deeper, rocking backwards and forwards, each slow, short stroke taking him closer to the edge. A small whimper escaped him as pleasure shivered along his nerve ends. "Positive."

"I don't...hurt you," gasped Bodie, beyond coherence at the glorious contractions massaging his cock. "What can I do?"

Doyle's eyes widened. "I don't...believe this. Put at...its most basic," he gasped, "you push, I shove, you hit the spot one more time and the earth...spins on its axis. Move, damn you!"

A silent spasm of near hysterical laughter shook Bodie, causing Doyle to give a soft moan of pleasure. "Oh, nice. Again."

This time Bodie's control broke and nothing could have stopped him.

 

"Your neighbours will think you've taken up cat-strangling for a hobby," remarked Bodie some time later, having dozed off for a while.

"Quite prob'ly," mumbled Doyle, sprawled limply beside him.

"'M cold. You want to move?"

"Don't think I can."

With an effort Bodie propped himself up on an unsteady elbow. "How d'you feel?"

Appalled by his companion's talkative state Doyle reopened his eyes, stilling his tart reply when he recognised the shadowed apprehension in Bodie's eyes. "My jaw's giving me hell, my back's killing me and I'm bloody sore. That aside, no complaints. None - at - all," he confirmed, punctuating each word with a kiss. He groaned when he saw Bodie's mouth curve in a cocky grin. "I knew it," he moaned, "you're a monster. Go t'sleep."

Snuggled beneath the duvet Bodie gave a contented sigh and rubbed the small of Doyle's back. "Can't I say anything?"

"Only your prayers if you don't keep quiet." But Doyle smiled into Bodie's neck, rubbing his chin along his collarbone as he felt the gentle hand that caressed his buttocks. "Okay, fair's fair. You lived up to my fantasies. Different, mind. But... That was more like the antidote to your rotten week I had planned on Friday."

Bodie swallowed his yawn. "You wanted to make up for that?"

Doyle grimaced. "Yeah. I'm not surprised you didn't guess. Attack first, apologise later has always been my motto. But you made me so bloody mad." Of the hurt he said nothing.

"I forgive you," said Bodie magnanimously, his contentment such that he would have done no more than offer Cowley a benign smile if the Scot had walked in on them.

"Oh you do, do you. Well let me - "

"Christ, you're beautiful," murmured Bodie, distracting Doyle totally.

Giving Bodie an impotent glare he reburied his nose against Bodie's throat. "Put out the light and shut up."

"Can't. It's morning."

Listening to the clink of milk bottles, Doyle groaned. 

"Nothing to stop us having a lie in," Bodie pointed out. "D'you realise we've just ruined a second duvet cover?" he added inconsequentially.

"Bugger. Then you know where we'll be spending Sunday lunch," said Doyle drowsily, snuffling the scents that were coming to mean Bodie to him.

"Yeah, bed."

"Launderette's more like it."

"It's illegal in a public place, isn't it?"

But because Bodie made no attempt to fend off the pillow Doyle had intended to stifle him with Doyle kissed him instead.

 

Still a little stiff-legged Doyle entered the lounge late Sunday night to find Bodie stretched along the sofa, a cushion cuddled to his chest. Relaxed in sleep he looked ridiculously young, the often arrogant lines of his face softened, his eyelashes casting dark shadows across his cheeks. Against his better judgement, his defences having regrouped during the afternoon, Doyle kissed him awake and found himself being tugged down.

Exchanging leisurely, open-mouthed nuzzlings, enjoying the hand massaging his backside, Doyle finally looked up. "If you're hoping for better things you're going to be disappointed. I'm done for."

"Me, too," admitted Bodie cheerfully. "But you've got to admit it was an improvement on the usual Sunday lunch."

"It had its moments. Though I'm still not convinced the kitchen table was the most comfortable site. We could have broken our necks."

Waving that irrelevance aside Bodie nipped at Doyle's lower lip. "It's no hardship kissing you. Or being kissed. Especially now you can open your mouth," he added, stroking Doyle's colourful jaw. Very aware he hadn't been asked to stay the night, he added casually, "When can I see you again?"

A little wary, Doyle drew away from him to sit up. "What if Cowley finds out you've having it away with me?"

"Well I'm not planning to tell him and I'm bloody sure you won't. Let sleeping Cowleys lie. I'll worry about him when I have to. I'm due in court tomorrow, probably be there all day. I could give you a ring when I'm free."

"The next three or four days are out for me," Doyle told the floor. "We're moving offices on Wednesday and there's a deal due to go down on Thursday. I'm going to be up to my ears in work."

"Chances are I'll be free every evening this week. You could always ring me when you're through. We could have a pint or something."

"Bodie, I..."

Or a meal. You won't want to cook after a day sifting through old files," continued Bodie with dogged determination.

"You've forgotten Mrs Hodges. No, on second thoughts, her cooking's probably the attraction," said Doyle sourly. "I'll pick you up from your flat on my way home tomorrow if you like. About eight-thirty?"

"I like." But when Bodie reluctantly left to go home Doyle made no attempt to stop him.

 

"No one looking at you would guess it's a wet Monday morning and that we've got a fourteen-hour day ahead of us," said Sullivan acidly as Doyle bounced into his office just after 7.30 exuding bonhomie.

"It's called the prime of life, my old mate. Not that you'd remember," added Doyle, a sparkle in his eye, a spring in his step.

"Thanks a bundle. You had a good weekend, I take it?"

"You could say that," agreed Doyle, optimistically convinced it could work and anticipating his evening with Bodie already.

"Like that, is it? Is it anyone I know?"

Instantly on his guard Doyle shook his head. Recognising the signs Sullivan forbore to tease and got down to work.

 

Spending every evening and night that week in Bodie's company, Doyle finally admitted defeat on Friday as he stared at the dark head in his lap, wondering if Bodie was asleep.

"What are you thinking about?"

Doyle jumped and gave the close-lidded face a suspicious look. "How did you know I was thinking?"

"Could hear the machinery grinding," said Bodie, shifting position, the change affording him a better view of the naked flesh beneath the white bathrobe Doyle was wearing. Glad he had remembered to shave before Doyle collected him, he began to lick his way up Doyle's inner thigh, not greatly surprised when he saw the soft towelling begin to stir, as if of its own accord. "What were you thinking about?" he paused to ask.

"The fact romance has died. Thought you'd fallen asleep on me," said Doyle, his voice less than steady as Bodie's tongue explored his testicles.

"Not a chance. Can I have another practice at sixty-nining?" a muffled voice added, "I think I'm getting better at it."

Tugging at the navy silk robe he had found for Bodie to wear Doyle drew the dark head up. "You're right. We could make it a double act."

Ringing the prize he had won Bodie shook his head. "Not a good idea. I need to concentrate."

"And I need you. Stop prattin' around and come here," said Doyle roughly, pushing fabric aside. "There's nothing wrong with a bit of rock 'n' roll and I want to kiss you. Lemme up."

Making that simple tactical error Bodie soon lost any semblance of control over the situation. Kneeling on the sofa, one hand clenched over the back for support, the other cradling Doyle's skull, he gave a shuddering cry of some power as, his balls contracting, Doyle drained him.

"That was one hell of a kiss," muttered Bodie weakly, collapsing onto his heels. "I thought I was the one who needed the practice?" Doyle gave an untroubled mumble. "Let me, Ray," he said, his eyes seeming very dark, their expression softened.

"You can do what you like. But I'd leave it for a while," added Doyle, mopping himself with the corner of his bathrobe.

"You came?"

"Noticed that, did you? Always thought these CI5 blokes were quick."

"But I didn't touch you," said Bodie, deaf to the slur.

Doyle shook his head, but whether at Bodie or himself wasn't clear. "Turned me on something chronic listening to you. Lucky we aren't always this noisy," he added, subsiding into a boneless tangle, his head against Bodie's shoulder, his hand linked with that resting on his rib cage. Quite who was supporting whom he couldn't be bothered to work out.

"Prefer to be touching you when you come," said Bodie wistfully.

"Well you'll have to wait. Are you working tomorrow?"

"On standby. Can't believe it. There's a chance I may have two free weekends in a row."

"What does on standby mean?"

"That we can't go farther than eight miles from headquarters and that we could get called in at any time. Usually the most inappropriate moment, if Cowley has anything to do with it," Bodie added darkly. "As it's been quiet for over a week the bubble's bound to burst soon. If that happens I'll leave a message if I can but - "

" - it's not always possible," completed Doyle. "It's okay, I'll expect you when I see you."

Bodie sat up. "You mean I can come round?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong but you've been spending most of the week here," said Doyle tartly. "I'll be back in a minute." As good as his word he returned to hand Bodie a bunch of keys.

"You'd better have these. My hours can be equally odd and we don't want you camping on my doorstep like Orphan Annie."

Taking them, Bodie stared at the keys: front door, back door, security system and two others he didn't recognise. "Are you sure you want me to have these?"

"You're holding them, aren't you?"

"But you wish I wasn't."

Swinging back to him Doyle was immediately on the defensive. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't need to," said Bodie, setting the keys on the arm of the sofa very gently. "I'd like to feel free to use them when you're ready."

"Strewth, how much persuading do you need?" His hand rammed in the pockets of his open robe Doyle glared at him before his expression relaxed. "Use them whenever you want, tomorrow for preference, presuming you get called out in the first place. It isn't you that's wrong, it's me. This is the first time I've ever given anyone the keys to my home, even Tony. The only people who've ever stayed overnight are his kids. I didn't mean to sound so grudging. Well, I did, but I didn't mean it," he added, sincere but less than coherent.

"You're feeling hemmed in," recognised Bodie.

"A little," said Doyle, making no attempt to deny the obvious. "We're friends. I don't want to lose that."

Bodie frowned at his back. "Why should - ? It doesn't matter. Stop worrying, Ray. Take it one day at a time. I'll try not to crowd you. Sometimes I'm better off alone myself - I'm not always fit company."

"So? It needn't stop you living here. I have bad days too, if for different reasons. I'll still expect you to put up with me. It works both ways. Are you going out with anyone else?" Doyle added, the question almost dragged from him.

"No. I don't intend to either."

Disconcerted, Doyle stared at him. "D'you expect the same from me?"

"Bloody right I do. Shit." Knowing he had blown it, Bodie's face scrunched. "I don't have any rights, do I?"

Doyle gave a slow smile. "I wouldn't say that. Squatter's rights must count for something. I haven't seen Fiona for a while as it is. It won't take much to sever the thread."

"I'm not asking you to - " began Bodie.

"Just take the bloody keys and stop making a production out of it."

Doyle teaching him more about patience in a few weeks than Cowley had managed in eighteen months, Bodie did as he was told.

Saturday they spent in sex and grocery shopping and sex again. Neither man suggested Bodie should return to his own flat.

 

Disdaining the idea of breakfast Doyle took his coffee into the lounge, ignoring his more energetic companion. Unshaved, his hair rumpled, and bare-footed, he was dressed only in ancient tracksuit bottoms that clung in all the right places. Sprawled along the sofa he raised an eyebrow when Bodie came into the room, munching a fried egg sandwich, the Sunday newspapers gathered under one arm.

"You get yolk on the carpet, you clean it," Doyle warned, swallowing a yawn. He had slept poorly, yet to adjust to sharing his bed.

"If you want a bite you're out of luck," said Bodie thickly as he finished it.

"Lick the yolk off your chin," Doyle advised him loftily, dodging just in time as a weighty heap of newsprint was deposited next to him.

"Don't tell me you have to read these too?" said Bodie. 

"The tabloids for the smut and football, the heavies for the financial pages. Too?" added Doyle, more interested in finishing his coffee.

"Cowley expects us to keep up to date on current affairs," said Bodie sadly, not choosing to add he rarely obliged. He tossed a package next to Doyle.

"What's that?"

"Open it and find out."

A dangerous glint in his eyes as he studied the wad of money he hadn't seen since he had tucked it into Bodie's jacket just over a week ago and that neither of them had referred to since, Doyle made no further attempt to touch it. "I hope you're not making the mistake of giving me this for services rendered."

"I can see I'm going to have my work cut out in mellowing that temper of yours. Stop jumping to conclusions," said Bodie, crouching beside him. When Doyle said nothing, he took an audible breath. "It is for you - to go with my hand and my heart. That's all my worldly possessions, except for my clothes. I'm trying to propose to you, you berk."

"Don't be bloody stupid. You don't know the first thing about me so how can you want to - ?" The expression he glimpsed on Bodie's face stopped him. "You moving in full time wouldn't work," he said weakly.

Making himself comfortable at Doyle's feet, his forearm propped on Doyle's knees, Bodie remained silent, having realised his greatest strength consisted in keeping quiet and allowing Doyle to convince himself.

Glancing down and seeing nothing Doyle briefly touched the wad of money nestling in his lap. "All your worldly possessions?"

"Except the stuff I couldn't pawn."

It was then Doyle realised why Bodie had taken to wearing a cheap Superman watch rather than the expensive state of the art timepiece he had noticed him wearing in the past; unashamedly in love with gadgets of all kinds, that watch had been Bodie's pride and joy. "You hocked everything? You're mad," he said with conviction. "Stark, staring barmy. Was it to come up with my fee?"

"Some businessman you must be," mocked Bodie gently. "I was well short of that."

"I'm not bloody well surprised. Why haven't you redeemed your stuff? You can't go around bankrupting yourself just to prove a point. And will you get off your knees? All right," sighed Doyle, "we'll give it a whirl on a permanent basis. But I'm not making any promises," he added with unloverlike haste.

"Fair enough," said Bodie equably.

"I don't know why you're smirking like that," said Doyle, becoming increasingly irritable. "I mean it. No promises."

"I'll take my chance."

"Don't give me that. You haven't got a humble bone in your body. What are you playing at?" Again, the flicker of emotion he glimpsed before it was tucked away made Doyle pause. A moment later he had taken Bodie in a fierce hug. 

 

"At least this time you're the one with carpet burns," remarked Doyle, pursing his lips to blow across the dark pubic curls tickling his nose.

His cords bunched below his knees, his shirt rucked up under his armpits, Bodie gave a faint grin. "It's not the carpet that bothers me but the draught whistling under the door. Maybe I should think about writing the definitive thesis on carpets I've known and loved. We seem to be trying all of yours out in turn."

"We'd better give the one in the hall a miss until Spring then because a gale comes under the front door," said Doyle, rolling onto his back to stare up at the ceiling before he gave a lazy scratch and arched, tugging at his tracksuit bottoms.

Bodie nuzzled his navel, causing him to collapse. "I'm hungry."

"So am I," said Doyle, watching Bodie re-dress with some regret.

"Don't doze off again. Put something on that won't get you arrested for indecent exposure and I'll buy you lunch."

"There's no holes in this."

"There's not much of anything, except you."

"You noticed?"

"You're a wicked sod. Come on, you. Shower, change and I'll feed you. I'll need to borrow some of that though," Bodie added, nodding to the wad of money, mindful of his stretched-to-squeaking-point credit limit and his impecunious state until pay day.

"That's going to be used to redeem your belongings as fast as we can."

"There's no hurry. I'm not even sure I want some of them back."

"The way the interest is mounting you probably won't be able to afford them."

"Interest?" said Bodie faintly.

Doyle gave him a patient look. "I'm right in thinking you took out a loan, aren't I? They must have seen you coming," he sighed. "No one lends money for free, you berk. You didn't go to a loan shark?"

"Of course I didn't. Cowley would nail me to the wall. Financial consultant," said Bodie, very much on his dignity and still not clear what all the fuss was about.

"Is that what they called themselves? God knows what APR they're charging you, never mind the penalty for early repayment. I suppose you signed something?"

Bodie gave a vague nod.

"I wonder about you sometimes," muttered Doyle. "Have you got this something with you?"

"Shouldn't think so. Unless - I think I was wearing the same jacket. It should still be in the inside pocket."

"Let's find out," said Doyle, hauling him out of the room.

"It's only money, Ray," said Bodie mildly, following him in the interests of a quiet life.

"No it's not, it's the principle of someone desperate for cash being bled white," retorted Doyle. "Go on, check."

Fumbling through his jacket pockets Bodie produced a rather crumpled document and handed it over in a hopeful manner.

"The bastards," said Doyle, scanning it.

Still finding this concern no more than faintly amusing, Bodie peered over his shoulder to look at the page. "Something wrong?"

Turning, Doyle's severity dissolved into wry amusement when he realised he would be wasting his breath. "No," he lied. "As you're likely to be busy next week how about leaving me to get your stuff back from the pawnbrokers and to redeem this? If you'll trust me, that is."

Bodie's slap on his rump as Doyle bent to place the agreement under the bedside lamp echoed around the room.

"That hurt!" said Doyle indignantly, straightening in a hurry.

"It was supposed to. Of all the stupid things to say. I've just had a thought."

"Want to celebrate?" asked Doyle, pressing back into the palm caressing him.

"No. I've just realised, you'll be able to keep my expenses and stuff in order for me." Bodie gave an ingratiating beam.

"There's a treat."

"I'll pay you in kind. With interest."

"Cumulative?"

"You explain it, I'll pay it," Bodie promised. The kiss he initiated had just reached the interesting stage when his RT bleeped. Giving it a sour look Doyle released him, moodily listening to one half of the conversation.

"I've gotta go," said Bodie, grabbing up his jacket and heading for the bedroom door.

"Gathered that much," said Doyle, racing down the stairs behind him. "When will you be back?"

"Dunno. Soon as I can. Could be a few hours, days or weeks. Is that all right?" asked Bodie, pausing to grab the bunch of keys from the sitting room.

"No, but it's something I'll have to get used to. Be careful," added Doyle as Bodie gave him a parting slap on the flank and ran. Having watched him drive off Doyle carefully closed the front door, aware Bodie's thoughts were already far from himself. Going back upstairs to shower and change, he realised how quiet the house seemed. 

 

In many ways the next five days were sheer relief to Doyle in the bliss of having his house and bed to himself again. It wasn't that Bodie was difficult to live with, save for his intake of food and expectation that someone else would prepare it. Their hours together, which had been limited due to the demands of their respective jobs, flew by as they talked, joked, made love or went to the pub or sports club, Bodie a welcome guest there, his no-holds-barred workouts with Doyle a major attraction to the other members. But there were advantages to life without Bodie.

Doyle could now sleep the night through without waking poised to attack the hard-muscled body lying next to him in the darkness. Adapting to this change in his sleeping habits might have been easier but for the fact Bodie liked company in bed, unconsciously chasing him across the mattress when he sought to escape his octopus-like companion. The bathroom returned to looking as if a hurricane had hit it, Doyle no longer feeling guilty about Bodie tidying up in his wake; if he wanted to he could ignore the security system or disappear into his study to work at three in the morning. With all those advantages at the forefront of his mind it was with some reluctance that Doyle finally admitted how much he was missing Bodie.

Studying his diary unenthusiastically Doyle tried not to dwell on how much work he had to get through. Not that he was bored exactly but he had never wanted to be stuck behind a desk or trapped in a too-predictable routine. Soon be getting middle-aged spread, he told himself gloomily, yet to see himself as others saw him.

Going in to see Sullivan, he found him poring over a massive work chart that overlapped his desk, his partner refusing to trust the computers everyone else took for granted. "You rattled my chains?"

Sullivan spared him a jaundiced glance. "I've been looking at this. We're stretched to capacity."

"Tell me about it. Better than being slack, I suppose."

"Stop being so positive," growled Sullivan before he remembered why he had wanted to see Doyle. "In a good mood, are you?"

"Horrible," said Doyle, pouring himself a cup of coffee while wondering when he would find time to see Bodie, always supposing Bodie wasn't working this weekend too.

"Situation normal in other words."

"If you're working up to asking me to put on a penguin suit and go to Lady K's Ball, forget it. You're the one with the high public profile, I'm the one who does all the real work."

"But it's you she wants."

"Then she'll be disappointed."

"Never mind her, " said Sullivan with some haste, "it's something far more interesting."

Listening with only half an ear Doyle gave an absent nod, busy wondering if he might do better to buy two single beds for his room. He'd considered an emperor-sized bed, abandoning the idea when he realised Bodie would simply have a larger expanse of mattress to follow him across in his unconscious, limpet-like devotion. He certainly couldn't explain that at the age of twenty-eight he couldn't share a bed with someone.

"...hope you've got plenty of money saved up. Isobel said yes last night."

"Plenty," said Doyle, having heard only one word in five.

"You don't sound very pleased about it," said Sullivan, deflated by Doyle's lack of reaction.

Roused from his abstraction Doyle debated bluffing, realised it wouldn't work and opted for the truth. "What?"

"Me getting married. To Isobel."

That bellow getting through, Doyle leapt to his feet, spilling the dregs of his coffee over the chart. "That's fantastic! She must be crazy, mind, but it's great, Tony. No wonder you're looking so smug. When's the wedding?"

"As soon as I can get a licence, I'm not giving her the chance to change her mind."

"Very wise. Why aren't you out choosing the ring?"

"We would be but with all the work we've got on - Look at the mess you've made of my chart. How am I supposed...?"

"That's why we have a computer. Stop fussing. It's fast, efficient and impressive. Everything you're not, really," Doyle mused.

"Thanks, friend," said Sullivan, having to abandon his attempts to save his chart as he covered himself in coffee and ink.

"As for Housecalls, forget it. Take the weekend off. Maggie and I can see to things here, although if Matthew wants some extra cash you might send him along to help out."

"You're already up to your ears," said Sullivan, sorely tempted.

"I can juggle a few things. Beaufort can wait, for one. If he doesn't like it he can - "

"That's no way to speak of a peer of the realm."

"You wait till you've spent an hour in his company. It's people like him that make people like me man the barricades. Stop changing the subject. You're not indispensable and it isn't every day you hook a lady like Isobel."

"I know," said Sullivan blissfully. "God, Ray, I'd given up hope. It's..." Seeing Doyle's indulgent grin he tried to sound more businesslike. "Okay. That's the favour I had in mind. Now I don't owe you one."

"That's what you think."

"We're throwing a party at Annabel's tonight. Don't be late. You can make it, can't you?" Sullivan added, the beginnings of disappointment on his face when he saw Doyle's expression change.

"Is it likely I'd miss the chance of getting a free drink out of you? Of course I can. And for Isobel I'll even wear a dinner jacket," he added, his air of sacrifice only partially assumed.

"I think she'd prefer those running shorts of yours."

"Yeah? I'll be a bit chilly in just them, won't I?"

"You wouldn't," said Sullivan, on what he hoped was a note of confidence. Doyle's grin widened. "Sod. Oh, there was one other thing. You'll be my best man of course."

Surprise and pleasure on his face, Doyle stared at him. "Well, yes. But won't you want - ?"

"I'd prefer someone suave and debonair who treats me with a modicum of respect but you're all I could think of."

"I appreciate the thought, Tony, but shouldn't Matthew or your brother... It's a family time," said Doyle with a trace of awkwardness.

"In case it's escaped your notice over the years, you qualify. Daft sod, who else would I ask? It's settled then."

"But Isobel - "

"Already needs reminding she can't afford you as a toy boy. Come off it, Ray, you know she thinks the sun shines out of your - "

"She's a sweetheart," said Doyle warmly, Isobel in his opinion almost good enough for his partner. "You'll make a great couple. Now clear off before the phone rings. Why don't you take off to the cottage? I wasn't planning on using it and Gwyneth's still in America. God help you when she finds out what she's missed."

"Don't even mention it. We will. The boys are being very tactful but it would be nice to have some time to ourselves."

"They could always stay with me if they want," offered Doyle, trying not to wonder how he would explain Bodie to them if he should arrive home. "Though they' re old enough to look after themselves by now."

"I know," said Sullivan with a grimace. "On the whole they're bloody good about humouring me. It's just - I don't feel old enough to have sons the size of them." His face clouded. "Matthew's the same age you were when you came to work for me."

Doyle raised his eyebrows heavenwards. "I don't believe I'm hearing this. You can't still be feeling guilty, not today of all days." Prepared to bluff, Sullivan was never given the chance. "You're the best thing that could have happened to me."

"Yeah? I'd kill anyone who pimped for my kids."

"Stop getting maudlin," Doyle advised him, giving Sullivan a brief hug before tipping him out of his chair. "Go," he said in mock exasperation.

"I'm going, I'm going. I'll have to. Isobel's waiting in the car ready to take off if she sees a traffic warden or the clamp wagon."

"You left her outside all this time?" Doyle was already at the door, preparing to offer his congratulations in person.

 

It was gone 3 a.m. on Saturday morning when Doyle arrived home, his key in the lock when the door was wrenched open.

"And where the bloody hell have you been?" demanded a furious Bodie. "I thought something had happened to you." Of his other ignoble suspicions he said nothing.

Doyle stopped dead, his smile of pleasure freezing before it disappeared altogether. "You don't own me."

"True. I was under the mistaken impression you might be glad to see me. You didn't bring her in with you then. Just got back from a cosy interlude at her place have you?" Bodie added, having glimpsed the beautiful blonde kissing Doyle through the open taxi window.

Coldly angry, Doyle outstared him with ease. "No," he said evenly, "I thought Tony might object as she's his fiancée of one night. They held a celebration bash at Annabel's, which you would know if you'd taken the trouble to check the Ansafone for the message I left on it instead of leaping to conclusions. Flattering ones at that. Excuse me, I'm tired."

"Ansafone?" said Bodie blankly.

"In the study," said Doyle in the same hard tone, his manner thawing a little when he saw Bodie's obvious surprise. "You must have noticed it."

"I've never been in there," said Bodie simply.

Doyle paused in unfastening his bow-tie. "You've been living here for over a fortnight."

"You didn't... I didn't want to pry," muttered Bodie with an awkwardness that told Doyle just how grudging his hospitality must have seemed.

"You daft sod," he said roughly. "Dammit, maybe I deserved it at that," he conceded a moment later. "Let's start again." Taking Bodie's wrist in a firm grasp he led the way into the study, flicking on the lights. "For your information this is your home and you have a free run of everything in it, including me. If you didn't you wouldn't have a key. There hasn't been much time to settle down I admit but... We should have had the conducted tour the first night. There's a gym down in the cellar, I bet you haven't seen that either. Never mind that now," he added more gently, recognising how tired Bodie looked.

"You've got everything here," discovered Bodie, finding Doyle's study to be a fully functional if luxurious office complete with computer terminals, fax and photocopier.

"I do quite a lot of work from home, or I did till you arrived."

"Put you behind schedule, did I?" asked Bodie with a smug grin.

"I wasn't complaining." One arm around Bodie Doyle unfastened his evening shirt with relief. "What's that smirk for?"

Looking at the sensual, half-naked male animal next to him and mentally comparing Doyle with the majority of businessmen he had encountered, Bodie gave him a proprietorial pat. "Never thought I'd settle down with a gnome from Zurich who looks as good as you, that's all. D'you fancy a drink?"

"I'd rather have tea. I've seen enough champagne to float the QEII tonight. It's nearly four in the morning."

"Ah, but we get a lie-in tomorrow and I've got the weekend off."

"I haven't."

"Bugger," said Bodie mildly, adding milk and sugar to Doyle's tea. "Can't be helped I suppose."

"You don't mind?" asked Doyle, disconcerted by Bodie's easy acceptance of the situation.

"Oh, I mind," said Bodie, massaging the nape of Doyle's neck and feeling the tension there. "But I can hardly complain about your work when you put up with my hours, can I?"

"Not everyone would think of that," said Doyle, slumping against the draining board as he sipped at his tea, his long day catching up with him.

"Ah, but I'm unique. I came across like a jealous - I was."

Doyle gave a philosophical shrug. "It's better than the reverse, I suppose. You thought I'd go waltzing off elsewhere the moment you weren't here?"

"Didn't think at all," grimaced Bodie, "just reacted. Cowley's always complaining about it."

"You get jealous about Cowley?"

His arms sliding beneath Doyle's dinner jacket, Bodie hugged him tight, laughing into his neck before he began to lick his ear. "You smell wonderful. Don't feel bad either. I fancy you something rotten. Are you really tired?" he murmured, rubbing Doyle's just visible nipples through the lawn of his shirt.

"I will be. I've got to be up at six."

Bodie's palm slid downwards. "I've got news for you, you're early. Come to bed, Ray. 'S more comfortable than the carpet, warmer, too."

"Silver tongue." Palming Bodie's buttocks Doyle stared at him through slitted eyes, not as tired as he had supposed. "I want you."

"Good," said Bodie with satisfaction, rubbing Doyle's flanks before giving him a gentle slap. "Come on, then."

Halfway up the stairs Doyle began to laugh upon realising Bodie had paused to set the alarms. "So much for my charms. Will you get a move on? I might lose interest."

Bodie paused to study him, the fit of the dark evening trousers denying Doyle's claim. "Want me to put it to the test?"

"Not tonight. Hurry up, I want to be asleep in five minutes."

"Last that long, can you?" Bodie marvelled, making no real attempt to escape retribution.

 

Collecting Doyle from the offices of Housecalls just before ten o'clock that evening Bodie abandoned any thoughts of riotous loving, driving them home to the meal waiting to be heated. Watching Doyle nearly fall asleep over it, he gave a rueful grin. "I shouldn't have kept you up past your bedtime earlier this morning. You look knackered."

"Looks aren't always deceiving. I need some sleep. It's another heavy day tomorrow. 'M sorry, it's not much of a weekend for you."

"I'll survive," said Bodie easily. "Found my way round the house, had a workout in the gym - 's brilliant, that - and a pint with Murph from work. I can carry on stripping off the paint in the spare room, saw you'd started it."

"You don't have to," said Doyle, mid-yawn.

"I know. It'll be fun. I haven't ever done any decorating. Go to bed, Ray. I'll be up later." Mumbling a drowsy acknowledgement, Doyle went.

 

At what felt like the middle of the night Bodie awoke to delicate touches around his groin and a velvet hardness nudging the cleft of his buttocks. "Nice. I thought you were knackered," he murmured, his stretch thrusting him back against Doyle.

"I was. Now I've had a sleep. 'S six o' clock and I've decided work can go fuck itself," Doyle murmured, nipping gently at Bodie's ear lobe.

"Great. You wouldn't fancy fucking me instead, would you?" He smiled as Doyle's cock gave a responsive twitch against him. "Well that's that settled."

"Hang on a minute," said Doyle as Bodie leant out of bed to rummage for the lubricant, first flicking the light on. Staring at the hard-muscled curves of Bodie's backside as the duvet slid away Doyle gave an audible swallow, tracing lightly down one cheek with his finger. "Have you - ? Um, when was the last time you, er - "

"About four years ago," said Bodie cheerfully, wanting to help him out. "Got it!" He almost did, Doyle's eyes fixed hungrily on his clenching buttocks before Bodie rolled onto his back, a container in his hand. He dangled it in front of Doyle's nose.

"You've gone a bit glaze-eyed," he mocked affectionately.

"Wasn't I supposed to? And you needn't think you're going to carry on lying on your best asset."

"Most people rave about my eyes," said Bodie loftily.

"Well, power to their elbows. I'll stick with the other end."

"Why did you want to know when I last had it?" asked Bodie, losing the lid in his haste to undo the lubricant. 

"Don't be thick. We'll take a few days working up to it in that case. You'll be - "

"Very frustrated by then. Come on, Ray," Bodie coaxed, leaning up to smile into worried green eyes. "See how we go, eh? Hold out your hand?"

"What for?"

Bodie kissed him on the nose. "So I can moisturise your fingers, what d'you think, dummy."

Locking his wrists behind Bodie's neck, his immediate urgency faded, Doyle gave him a leisurely kiss, sucking gently on his tongue. "Why did you wait four years? Didn't you like it?"

"Loved it, in the right company. Didn't meet anyone I fancied having me. Only met a couple of blokes I fancied having."

"And did you?"

"One of them. Was great for a couple of weeks, that's all we wanted out of it. Speaking of which, how do you want me?"

"On toast with a piece of parsley stuck in your bum and some melted butter - "

" - goin' everywhere. Will you concentrate?" said Bodie severely. "You're turning me on something rotten."

"No?" marvelled Doyle, his hands sliding up and down Bodie's rump. "On your knees would be easiest for you first time round."

Bodie was already kicking away the duvet. "Can always start off that way."

Doyle tapped him on the shoulder. "How much stamina do you think I've got?"

"Dunno. We'll find out, shall we? Ray, stop looking at my bum and do something, will you?" Bodie added, willing to swear he could feel the heat of Doyle's gaze burn his skin.

"Might have guessed you'd be a backseat driver," sighed Doyle before he nuzzled the hollow of Bodie's back, his tongue slipping down the cleft of his buttocks to taste him. Capturing one of the dark hairs between his teeth, he tugged gently, his other hand around Bodie's cock judging his response.

"See, I told you it would be okay," said Bodie. Sprawled across the mattress he was looking very smug despite the fact his eyes kept closing of their own accord, prostate massage having taken on a whole new meaning. "Aren't you going to have at me?" he added, reaching ineffectually for the duvet.

"What with?" asked Doyle ruefully, dropping the sheet he had used to mop them clean with to the floor and drawing up the duvet. "You'll 'ave to wait a bit."

"Breakfast?"

"Neither of us will be awake. Make it lunchtime."

"You've got a date."

 

No more than half awake, Bodie hooked the telephone from the bedside cabinet to sit it on Doyle's rib cage. "'S bound to be for you."

"Cheers. Doyle," he announced sleepily. Bodie gave a faint grin as he saw Doyle flinch and hold the receiver a good six inches from his ear, able to hear an indignant but mercifully indistinct male voice from where he lay. "Sorry, Tony, I forgot about him. You're back early. Oh. Put a sock in it. D'you want me to come in?"

Watching Doyle's spreading smile, his affection for the man on the other end of the telephone obvious, Bodie felt a prickle of resentment, not understanding Doyle's friendship for his ex-pimp.

"Well stop moaning, then. This afternoon? I was going to. I should make a start on that plan of Tobias's. Okay, you've talked me into it. Cheers, mate. Love to Isobel. He hopes I get brewer's droop," said Doyle to Bodie as he leant over him to replace the telephone on the cabinet.

"Does he. Come on, shift. You're heavy and I need to take a crap. If you start cooking breakfast, I'll finish it."

Doyle eyed him thoughtfully from where he knelt on the bed. "What's up?"

"Nothing. What time do you have to leave?"

"I don't. Matthew is covering for the office, Tony will cancel my meeting. We don't usually work Sundays anyway but work's piling up and there wasn't any choice."

"You'd have gone in if he'd wanted you to?"

"Of course. I'm supposed to be covering for him. I would be but Isobel's got flu and doesn't want a heavy-footed nursemaid thundering round the place. So he's gone into work. I think you should meet the Welsh wizard. I know what you think of him and there's no point me telling you you're wrong, you'll have to meet him for yourself."

"How do you know what I think?"

"Your expression whenever his name is mentioned. What do you want to do today? Fancy a trip to Scotland? It's a lovely day for flying."

"I'm on standby," Bodie reminded him. "Eight-mile radius of London."

"Oh, right. Okay, let's keep it simple. Workout in the gym, you can buy me dinner and I bring you home and fuck you rigid. And no, we couldn't change the order round."

"No stamina, that's your trouble," said Bodie, shaking his head.

Padding over to him, Doyle patted him on the bottom. "For what I've got in mind we'll both need some."

 

"I thought you said we were going to the Club," remarked Bodie lazily, propped sideways in the passenger seat so he could enjoy watching Doyle drive.

"We are. Not the Marlborough, though. I used to help out most weeks at this place in Pimlico. What with one thing and another I haven't been around recently and they're always short-staffed. You'll enjoy it."

"Pimlico," said Bodie with all the disdain of Lady Bracknell.

"Snob," accused Doyle.

"Who's this club for?"

"I think the term's underprivileged kids. It's somewhere for them to go - beats stealing cars or glue sniffing."

"Wonderful."

 

"Well?" asked Doyle when they finally got home that evening.

"Well what?" returned Bodie infuriatingly.

"Are you telling me it wasn't a good day?"

Bodie thought about it. "The early morning was passable, the club was okay and the meal was fantastic. As I recall the best is yet to come. You did say something about fucking me rigid, didn't you? Let's go to bed."

"It's only ten-thirty," protested Doyle. "I fancy a drink and - Where are you going?"

Bodie reappeared with a bottle of scotch and two glasses and marched up the stairs. "Guess. I may start without you."

"You're in a rush, aren't you," said Doyle mildly, behind him for all that he didn't seem to be hurrying.

"All day I've been watching you," said Bodie. "Driving the car, getting changed, grunting and heaving in the gym, the pool, on the ropes and bars. If I hadn't been so busy watching the way those shorts clung to your bum I wouldn't have this bruise," he added, pointing to his midriff.

"Turn you on, do I?"

Setting down the bottle and glasses with some care Bodie turned back to him. With great deliberation he began to remove Doyle's clothing. "Uh, uh," he said when Doyle would have reached for him, "you'll have to wait." He drove Doyle mad because at no point did he attempt to caress the body he was baring to the air, the fleeting brush of his knuckles over Doyle's buttocks or thighs enough to make him shiver. By the time Doyle was naked he was more than half hard from nothing more than the stimulus of Bodie's hot blue stare.

"What now?" he asked huskily, watching Bodie stripping off his own clothing with no attempt at finesse.

"Now you keep your promise."

 

Bodie's expression of luxurious anguish telling him all he needed to know, Doyle stilled. "Have you got any money?"

His eyes slitted with frustration Bodie discovered his inability to speed Doyle on his way, Doyle's control formidable. "Not on me," he said hoarsely.

"I gathered that much." Leaning forwards Doyle licked around Bodie's left nipple. "Let me put it another way. Have you got any money in your jacket?"

"Ray... About twenty quid, I think," said Bodie, conceding defeat.

"Twenty quid, eh?" Doyle licked with agonising slowness around Bodie's right nipple, burying himself infinitesimally deeper in his lover's body.

Bodie gave a shuddering sigh.

"Okay, I'll take it," announced Doyle, his own voice tight with tension.

"Eh?"

"I'm worth twenty quid, aren't I?"

Bodie debated strangling him but found himself grinning instead. "I don't know yet. But if I'm satisfied afterwards I'll think... oh yes... about it."

Withdrawing almost completely, his weight taken on his palms and one knee, Doyle remained poised above him. "You'll be satisfied."

 

Moaning as the RT woke him at 4.15, not convinced the lower half of his body belonged to him, it took Bodie longer than usual to dress. Finally ready, listening unenthusiastically to the rain lashing against the windows, he stared down at the sleeper who hadn't stirred throughout; curled on his side, one hand tucked under the pillow, there was a look of cherubic innocence to Doyle's face. Pausing a moment more, Bodie emptied his pockets of loose change and left Doyle an IOU for £199,998. 67.

 

More or less philosophical about being abandoned for two days, the sound of muffled swearing woke Doyle some time on Wednesday morning. "Prince Charming, I presume," he said sleepily.

"Sorry, I was trying to be quiet," apologised Bodie as he flicked on the light.

"You got a result," recognised Doyle, hauling himself up against the pillows.

"Yeah. Nailed the bastards in the act," said Bodie with glee. "I would have been back hours ago but Cowley make us clear up all the paperwork."

"What time is it?"

"Half-past three. I hope that chicken left out was meant for me because I've just eaten it."

"It was. What time do you have to be in tomorrow?"

"Ten-ish. You?"

"Nine-ish."

"You look like you've had a good sleep."

"Subtle as a brick, you are. Can see you're in the mood. D'you fancy redeeming your IOU?"

"Why should I do all the work?"

"Joint effort, then. Hello, you've had a drink, too," discovered Doyle, tasting whisky and - he assumed - Bodie. 

"Do you want one?"

"Not right now," murmured Doyle, stroking the inside of Bodie's thigh.

Ironically it was Bodie who was the closest to sleep by the time they lay quiet, sticky and content.

"What happened to your stamina?" Doyle whispered.

"It's probably all over your belly. And very nice it was too. Night."

"Nice?" echoed Doyle with a trace of indignation.

"Lovely," confirmed Bodie, snuggling even closer.

Doyle gave what he could see of the dark head tucked under his chin a resigned look. "There's plenty of room in the bed for both of us."

"I know. So? 'M I squashing you?"

"A bit but that's not the problem."

Bodie lay quiet for a moment before sitting up. "Then what is?"

"I'm not used to... That is, I keep waking up ready to deball you till I remember who it is. I'm not used to sharing my bed with a bloke, or anyone else for that matter," added Doyle, his air one of determined nonchalance.

"You've never spent the whole night with anyone?"

"Not often, and if I did I didn't sleep much."

"Why didn't you tell me I was crowding you before now? I'm the opposite. I love company in bed."

"I'd never have guessed," said Doyle, his eyes warm with amusement.

"No wonder you've been looking a bit heavy-eyed recently."

"It didn't matter at first and it isn't something I was keen to advertise. I mean, it's a bit bloody pathetic, isn't it?"

"Unusual, maybe, but I've heard of odder. Why didn't it matter at first?"

A hefty sigh wafted past Bodie's ear. "Because I didn't think we'd last long enough for it to become a problem." Bodie's hug drew a grunt of protest. "What's that for?" wheezed Doyle.

"For admitting I'm irresistible," said Bodie cheerfully, kissing him again. "Would you rather I slept next door till we can change the beds around?"

Because he sounded serious Doyle switched the light back on, gaining no advantage because its brilliance made them both squint. "Don't be stupid," he said irritably. "I'll never get used to it that way." He broke off to stare at the inches of mattress separating them, then at Bodie.

"What is it now?"

"Come back here. Makes me feel like I've got BO. And don't say it," Doyle added. "I just thought I'd mention it, that's all. If I give you a black eye in the middle of the night I'll expect you to be equally understanding. Clear?"

"Depends on the circumstances," said Bodie, refusing to commit himself.

"You're learning," grinned Doyle, switching off the light to settle down next to him. "Meant to ask, if you got a result why are bits of you purple-splotched?"

"They're nothing."

Remembering the bruise larger than his palm over Bodie's heart Doyle remained silent.

"It isn't that I don't trust you, Ray, but it's safer for you if I don't talk about work," explained Bodie into the darkness, an unaccustomed weight of responsibility settling on him. "What you don't know you can't be forced to say. Living with me could be dangerous for you."

"You sound like a government health warning."

"I'm serious. Or are you going to pretend you don't know anything about the guns in the cistern and under the bed?"

"Presumed you'd tell me if you thought it was any of my business."

"Doesn't it worry you to have them around?"

"As there's a Smith and Wesson sitting in the safe in the bathroom, no."

Bodie sat up. "What safe in the bathroom?"

"Haven't I shown it to you yet? Yeah. Some Libyan owned the house before me. God knows what he kept in it. It's in the floor of the cupboard at the end of the bath. Takes me about ten minutes to find it. It's why I don't bother to use it for cash or papers. I'll show you tomorrow."

"Have you got a licence for the Smith and Wesson?"

"Nope. I've got the competition guns covered but not that. There was a time when I thought about killing someone - Glencairn - I've had it since then. D'you want it?" Doyle added, supremely unconcerned.

"How long have you had it?"

"Seven years, or is it eight? Funny, I can't remember now."

"If you've had it all this time a few more years can't hurt. Next day we both get off I'll take you to the garage I rent. I have a car, money and weapons stashed there. Just in case someone throws a wobbly. In this game it isn't unheard of. No one knows about it," Bodie added matter of factly.

Staring out into the darkness Doyle felt for and found Bodie's hand. "It'll stay that way. Just hope we never need to use it. Funny though because that's all I keep in the bathroom safe, just in case they're needed in a hurry."

"Is that since I moved in or before?" asked Bodie evenly.

It didn't occur to Doyle to lie. "After. It's for both of us."

"Christ, Ray, I don't want you involved, at risk."

"I'm alive, aren't I? Stop fussing. I'm in no more danger than anyone else shacked up with a CI5 agent. Or are all the others celibate?"

"Most aren't committed for more than a few weeks. Maybe this is why," said Bodie with gloom, unaccustomed to worrying.

"While you're in such a cheerful mood, a block of ice could fall out of a passing plane and demolish the house and us with it," said Doyle with asperity. "Start thinking like that and I will pack it in. You can't afford the distraction in your job."

"I'm the one who's supposed to tell you that," protested Bodie but he sounded as if he was smiling.

"I saved you the bother."

"Shut up and go to sleep for what's left of the night."

"Who woke who up?" hissed Doyle.

Bodie simply grunted; within five minutes he was fast asleep, and wrapped around his companion.

 

As November reached its dismal conclusion, the grey skies of daytime giving way to sharp frosts at night, Bodie and Doyle continued to adjust to each other's life styles. For the most part their unsocial hours dove-tailed; when they didn't Doyle was sometimes able to rearrange his own schedule.

"You don't need to," said Bodie, feeling guilty because he couldn't offer the same compromise.

Doyle tossed a can of lager over. "You can hardly tell Cowley it isn't convenient for you to work an average seventy-hour week. It's not all like it was in Winchester is it?"

"All what?" asked Bodie, throwing the evening newspaper onto the floor, having been stuck on Five Across for all of two minutes.

"Working for CI5. What do you do?"

Bodie gave him a look of blank incomprehension. "You know what I do."

"If I did I'd hardly be asking. It can't all be mayhem."

"No," agreed Bodie, with what sounded suspiciously like regret. "There's a lot of routine investigation and too much paperwork. Reason we train so hard is because you never quite know when that could change. A routine investigation can literally blow up in your face. I sometimes wonder if we attract trouble. Take Stuart. He had a day off yesterday - popped into his bank and found himself in the middle of a hold-up."

"What happened?"

"We got the robbers and he'll be out of hospital in a couple of days."

"Why's he in hospital?"

"He got winged in the shoulder. No big deal," Bodie assured him, taking a long swallow of lager.

"You really mean that, don't you?"

"Of course. He'll be back on light duty in a week or so, the streets a week after that. It's better than dead or invalided out."

Doyle abandoned any pretence of working on the management report sharing the sofa with him. "What's CI5's mortality rate?"

"That's classified information, I can't tell you that."

"Bollocks. How many?"

"Three so far, not counting Barry Martin."

Slowly exhaling, Doyle carefully replaced the report in its folder, needing to gain himself a little time. "I suppose they aren't bad odds considering CI5's been going for nearly ten years."

"That's the total for this year," said Bodie, studying his outstretched legs.

"Oh." The folder slipped unnoticed to the floor as Doyle became aware of another drawback to living with Bodie, and one not so easily overcome as sharing a bed or keeping the bathroom tidy. "Then you be careful," he commanded gruffly. "I'll be bloody peeved if you come home perforated. I like your skin the way it is." He didn't want to consider the possibility that one day Bodie might never come home.

"Give me credit for a little sense," begged Bodie, grateful Doyle hadn't made a production out of his concern.

"I would if I got any encouragement from you," said Doyle, making the effort to reply in kind. "Of all the stupid jobs to pick. Still, I suppose you're consistent. You weren't exactly playing it safe six years ago."

"It's the only thing I'm good for."

"Not the only thing," said Doyle, finding an answering flare of arousal in Bodie's eyes.

"Let's go to bed."

Doyle was already on his feet, as eager as Bodie for some diversion from morbidity. "What do you have in mind?"

"A quick fuck would be nice."

"A long slow one would be better. We've got the time and I could probably work up the inclination with some encouragement."

"Step right this way, my son."

"Fine. You can do the washing up in the morning."

"Why me?"

"Because Mrs Hodges is off for the rest of the week and I've got a seven o'clock meeting. I'll be home latish, too. You're off-duty in the morning, aren't you?"

"Till eleven. I thought we could spend it in bed," mourned Bodie, following Doyle up the stairs.

"We can, till five-thirty. Then you can make me breakfast."

 

"What's that face for?" asked Bodie, still towel drying his hair as he ambled into Doyle's study in time to see Doyle replacing the telephone receiver.

"Tony's kids want to stay for the weekend and I couldn't think of an excuse fast enough to put them off," he said wryly, pushing _The Financial Times_ onto the floor to make room for Bodie next to him. "The trouble is they think of this place as a home from home, the same as Gwyneth's."

Ignoring Doyle for the allure of the fire Bodie tossed the towel to one side. "She's Sullivan's sister, isn't she?" he asked, his interest in Sullivan's offspring limited to the fact they were important to Doyle.

"That's Gwyneth," said Doyle, his air of gloom increasing when it dawned on him he was going to have to introduce Bodie to the Sullivan clan, and vice versa.

"Where's the problem in having the kids to stay?" asked Bodie, earning himself an old-fashioned look. "You're not ashamed of me are you?"

"Don't be stupid. It's just... They're not used to me having anyone to stay, never mind a bloke sharing my bedroom. I never got round to telling them I swing both ways."

"Ah. Well there's one easy way out. I'll stay at my place for the weekend. I'm working the graveyard shift anyway so it isn't as if we'd see much of each other. Reminds me, I might not be back till mid-week. It's time I checked out my flat anyway, if only to pick up the bills."

"That's all very well but I don't like the idea of kicking you out of your own home."

"Your home," corrected Bodie mildly as he topped up their drinks.

A frown appearing, Doyle sat up. "You don't feel comfortable living here?" He failed to see the cushion lobbed at him, spilling his whisky as it caught him in the face.

"I didn't mean it like that," said Bodie, not sure if Doyle's expression was due to a lapful of whisky or uncertainty. "But the house is yours, not mine and so far I haven't paid a penny towards its upkeep. That's got to change. It's all very well being a kept man for a week or two but..."

"A kept man?" echoed Doyle, a delighted grin appearing. "I like it. You'll make a lovely pet."

"I'll thump you in a minute. I'm paying my way, fifty-fifty like everything else between us. No arguments. How would you feel if our positions were reversed?"

"There's no need to glare at me like that," said Doyle mildly. "We'll sort something out. Are you sure you like the house?"

"I love it, I just happen to prefer its owner, that's all."

"Why haven't you turned in the keys to your old flat? You moved all your stuff in here over a month ago and we never go there."

"It isn't that simple. If I do Cowley will want to know where I'm living, and who with."

"You're making excuses," sniffed Doyle, who was in the throes of a heavy head cold. "If CI5's monitoring is half as good as you claim he must know you've been living with me."

"He can't do," said Bodie with confidence, "he would have said something by now."

"Would he? He's a devious old bastard."

"You're right about that much," Bodie said, sinking down next to him with a grunt of satisfaction. "I'll get round to telling him," he added, very much on his dignity as Doyle gave a hoot of laughter.

"I won't hold my breath. He knows, and presumably he approves of your choice."

Uneasy at the thought, Bodie remained unconvinced. "I don't think much of your logic."

"You've got to make it official some time," said Doyle, having come to terms with the consequential lack of privacy in living with Bodie early on.

"I know," Bodie conceded with gloom, absently rubbing Doyle-warm denim. "I'll tell him tomorrow," he added after a lengthy silence.

Giving a satisfied nod, Doyle kissed the corner of Bodie's mouth. "I'll have a restorative brandy waiting. Is it going to cause problems for you at work?"

"Dunno. There's nothing in the small print that says I can't live with a bloke - or sleep with him come to that."

After an eight-month acquaintance Doyle didn't need to ask what the small print was. "What about having sex with one?"

"Sex? In the small print? We're neuters, didn't you know."

"What if Cowley decides to write in an embargo?"

"Even Cowley can't stop us having it away."

"I'm serious!" snapped Doyle.

"I know. It's anyone's guess. I could find myself out of a job. Relax, I don't think it will come to that. I'm too good at what I do and Cowley has a way of getting round the things he wants to. For obvious reasons homosexuals and bisexuals aren't encouraged to join the Intelligence services. Unofficially, while no one admits we exist - "

" - you're bloody useful," completed Doyle cynically.

"Right. As far as Cowley can prove, no one on the Squad is anything but straighter than a flag pole."

"Why the secrecy?"

"Come on, Ray. Because while it's nice to keep your options open when you're off-duty, no one in their right mind wants Cowley getting that kind of a lever on them. He'd use it like a shot."

"Eh?"

"I think you must have water on the brain," sighed Bodie as Doyle blew his nose noisily. "Often the easiest and quickest way to get information is to send someone in undercover. Few nights of bliss between the sheets can get more than a six-week surveillance." He watched the penny drop with amused interest.

"Are you telling me that George-the-pillar-of-society-Cowley ponces for his staff?" demanded Doyle, sitting bolt upright.

A wide, happy grin spread across Bodie's face. "I'd never thought of it like that."

"What other way is there?"

"Oh, Cowley thinks of plenty, believe me. I'll have to break it to him that my activities are being reduced, not increased," Bodie added, his tone making it plain he didn't relish the prospect.

"Bloody right they are. You can tell him from me - "

"Don't tempt me," sighed Bodie.

"Have you - ? Forget it," said Doyle quietly.

"Been giving my all for Queen and Country while we've been living together? Subject never came up so it hasn't been a problem. I'll have to tell him before it has the chance to. He'll go spare if I screw up an assignment for personal reasons."

"Just so long as it isn't you getting screwed, I don't care," said Doyle darkly, possessive anger glinting in his eyes.

"Give over, I've been looking after myself for years."

"I bet you have."

Realising that Doyle wasn't finding the subject as amusing as he did, Bodie's smile faded. "You're really angry about... There's nothing to be jealous about. Honest."

"No?" said Doyle before he pulled a wry face and gave Bodie a thump on the knee. "I know. Didn't think I was the jealous type," he added, sounding a little surprised. "I suppose it's because I've never cared before."

"I know the feeling," said Bodie wryly.

"You, too?"

"Of course."

"You've got more cause. Do you want a list of my ex-clients?" When Bodie simply stared at him Doyle looked away, making the excuse of hunting for his handkerchief. "Sorry," he muttered.

"So I should think," said Bodie, unyielding. Then he looked at the red-nosed, red-rimmed-eyed picture of misery slumped next to him searching for a dry spot on his handkerchief, and gave him a quick hug. "Haven't you got another one?"

"Somewhere," said Doyle thickly.

"Hang on, I think there's one - Yeah, here it is. What's the problem now?" Bodie added, watching the pensive face.

"You. I keep wondering how you'll react if one day in the locker room of the Marlborough you find someone wanting to compare notes. A few of my old clients are still members."

Bodie swallowed his flippant impulse to ask which ones, suddenly realising he didn't want to know. Beginning to appreciate Doyle's point as he recognised his own reaction he stopped to think about it; if he couldn't give a honest answer he knew he would be better to keep quiet.

"I dunno," he admitted finally. "First they've got to find about you and me. While it's not something I'm ashamed of, there's no one there who's such a good mate I'd want to tell them. That said, I'd trust you to have had better taste than to pick blokes like that."

"I did, on the whole."

"Has someone been putting the bite on you, is that it?"

Runny-eyed, runny-nosed and running a slight temperature Doyle's crooked smile still made Bodie's heart lurch. "Going to sort them out, are you?"

"If necessary."

"Hey, you're serious, aren't you? Relax. It isn't. And if it was I'd do it myself. But I appreciate the thought."

"The sooner you can breathe through your nose the better," grimaced Bodie, tweaking a limp-looking curl. "And you can stop looking so wounded. One, you look like the village idiot and two, I can't kiss you." Any hope of reciprocal romantic declarations was lost when Doyle blew his nose like the last trump.

"If you're feeling more human tomorrow how about us going to the Club?" continued Bodie when he judged Doyle, who was sniffing moistly after a series of sneezes, to be in any state to hear him. "I've been slacking off and with the quarterly assessments due at the beginning of the year, I need to do something about getting back into shape or Macklin will massacre me."

"It's evil putting people through that just after Christmas."

"Malice aforethought on Cowley's part. I've just realised, tomorrow's off, you've got Sullivan's kids descending on you. I'd better pack myself a bag for the weekend."

Doyle groaned. "Fuck."

"No, that's something else that will have to wait until you can breathe through your nose."

"Bloody right it will," said Doyle sourly. "I've even got a headache."

"You look horrible," Bodie agreed frankly. "Lovable, mind, but sort of yellowish grey with red edging."

"Oh, thanks very much. It doesn't seem right you having to move out, though," Doyle added. "I'll tell the kids straight out. No reason why I shouldn't."

"Straight?" teased Bodie affectionately. "Tell 'em later. You'll know when the time's right. Or at least I suppose you will," he added with a rare trace of uncertainty. "I haven't had much to do with children. Two days apart won't kill us. Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. Besides, your cold will be better by then. Have you told Sullivan?"

"Not yet."

"Why not? You've been busy enough lecturing me about telling Cowley," said Bodie, yet to warm to Doyle's partner.

"It's hardly the same thing," protested Doyle, pausing to blow his nose again.

"Then why not?"

"Because knowing Tony he'll be straight round here to check you out," said Doyle, who had been entertaining doubts for some time about how the two very different men would get on.

"He'll check me out?" said Bodie incredulously. "Who the fuck does he think he is?"

"The best friend I've got," said Doyle in automatic defence of his partner.

Wondering where that left him, Bodie's mouth tightened. "He set you up in business and kept you in clients," he said, trying to call Sullivan the pimp he was without causing Doyle to detonate.

"That's one interpretation. You'll understand when you meet him," said Doyle, ignoring his companion's snort. "I don't know why I'm getting in a state about telling the best friends I have that I've settled down with someone who makes me happy anyway. I mean, whose life is it?"

"That's the first sensible thing you've said all the evening. And as it's twenty to one I'm going to bed. Any chance of having some company?"

"For what it's worth," said Doyle dolefully, reaching for his handkerchief.

"At least £199,998," said Bodie cheerfully, kissing the top of his head before pulling him to his feet.

 

"Ray, can you spare a few minutes?"

Having been on the point of leaving, Doyle gave a reluctant nod, judging from Sullivan's expression that the minutes could develop into hours. "I can tell it's a favour by your hangdog look. Just so long as you're not going to ask me to take Isobel to visit her parents, I don't mind. They can't be that bad," he added consolingly. 

"You want to bet? Even Isobel doesn't want to go but with the wedding only two weeks away... You said something about doing me a favour."

Doyle groaned. "Okay, I walked into that one. What did you have in mind?"

"It isn't much."

Unimpressed by that assurance Doyle gave him a dark look. "That means I'm going to hate it," he recognised.

"Your cold's no better. Maybe this should wait."

"Just get on with it, will you?"

"How about getting a takeaway and taking it back to my place for a chat? Isobel won't mind and the kids are away for the weekend."

"I know. They're probably eating me out of house and home right now."

"You can afford it. I wondered where they'd gone. Got the impression it was Gwyneth's. Why you?"

"Never you mind."

"If either of them tries to borrow money for a wedding present tell 'em to get stuffed. The allowances they're on - "

"Shut up, Tony," said Doyle mildly. "Gareth only did it the once and that was three years ago."

"Then why do they need to discuss presents with you?"

"You might find out in two weeks or so," said Doyle infuriatingly. "Besides, it gives them the chance to go on the razzle Friday and Saturday nights without anyone giving them the third degree. I'll keep an eye on them."

"I know. It's just... Even Gareth's at it."

"At what? Oh. Sex rearing its ugly head, you mean. At his age what do you expect? What was your major preoccupation at that age?"

"Getting my school certificate," said Sullivan without hesitation or truth.

"Try again."

"It's just difficult to think of them... I mean, I can remember changing their nappies, for god's sake. They probably talk to you more openly. It isn't that I want to pry but are they...that is, are the girls, you know, all right?" He glared at an openly laughing Doyle.

"I'm sorry. It's just that you sound like the worst kind of maiden aunt. They don't tell me much either but from the twinkle in Matthew's eye he's happy enough. Gareth's still finding his feet unless I'm mistaken."

"God, who'd be a parent," groaned Sullivan.

"Look on the bright side, you could have two girls to worry about."

"Thanks very much. Some comfort you are. Come on, let's get some food, I'm starving. Or did you have plans for this evening?"

"No, Bodie's working." Catching the intent look on Sullivan's face as he paused in locking up the office Doyle grimaced, aware of what he had let himself in for.

"Bodie?" echoed Sullivan, with no attempt at subtlety. 

"That's right."

"I haven't heard that name before," said Sullivan, pocketing the bunch of keys and gesturing to his car. "Or have I?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Stop being aggravating. This Bodie wouldn't be the reason you've been looking so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed recently, would he?" Sullivan asked, taking a fifty per cent gamble on the sex of Doyle's lover as he waited for the heater to defrost the windscreen.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a nosy sod?"

"Healthy interest in the well-being of a friend," insisted Sullivan with dignity. "Bodie... Hang on, that's the CI5 bloke you used to play squash with, isn't it?"

"That's him," said Doyle with resignation.

"And those spectacular workouts at the Marlborough. Rollie was telling me about them. Wished I'd seen one myself. CI5, eh? When am I going to meet him?"

"You want to?"

"Of course I... When?"

"He works long hours."

"He must get some time off."

"When he does we can think of better things to do with it than waste it on you," said Doyle with asperity, irritated by Sullivan's knowing grin. "And I didn't mean that. Or not all the time anyway."

"How long's this been going on?" Doyle glared at him. "Is it a secret?"

"Not any longer," conceded Doyle with a sigh. "He moved in with me in October."

Surprise kept Sullivan silent for a moment but he knew better than to comment. "Then I suppose I'll meet him at Christmas if I don't before."

"Christmas? Oh shit. I'd forgotten," groaned Doyle, breaking off to blow his nose.

"How could you forget Christmas? It started about September in Oxford Street."

"Jermyn Street's more my line," said Doyle primly. "And I had. Bugger. I've got exactly one week to buy everything and we're up to our eyes in work."

"Just so long as you're at Gwyneth's for Christmas Day. It's no good looking at me like that," added Sullivan, without needing to take his eyes from the road. "Unless you can come up with a cast-iron alibi she'll expect you to stay, the same as you always do. You're family. So's Bodie now."

Doyle gave the windscreen a look of gloom, knowing Gwyneth's interrogations would make Cowley's look like a benign Santa Claus. "It's not that easy," he began weakly. 

"Because Bodie's a bloke, you mean? Rubbish. All she wants is to see you settled down with someone. Preferably someone of her choice, I admit. Bodie will survive. Isobel did, I don't see why he should be any different."

"You wouldn't," sighed Doyle. "I don't think he'll see it in quite the same light. Always supposing he's not working."

"No one works over Christmas," said Sullivan with sweeping inaccuracy.

"CI5 never stops. D'you realise I haven't bought a single present yet?"

"Then you'd better get cracking," said Sullivan cheerfully as he found and reversed into a parking space. "Take tomorrow off and get started."

"Tomorrow is Sunday, the shops are shut. I'll take Monday instead. Now you've softened me up, what was that favour you wanted?"

"Oh that. It's nothing really. Just that someone has to go to that publisher's do on Tuesday night." Doyle gave him a speaking look. "I promised Tim Meacher," Sullivan protested. "I would go but Isobel and I will be in Devon with her bloody parents."

"Send Maggie."

"I would but she's already going to the Grosvenor do. It won't be too bad, Ray. A couple of hours at most. You'll be able to slip away as soon as the guest of honour arrives."

"I knew it. Who is it?"

"You never used to be this suspicious. Junior Minister of Health that was, Edwina whatshername. Because this bash is to launch their new range of books on green issues - including additives in foods - they thought she'd be the ideal choice. You know the sort of thing," Sullivan added with the vagueness of one addicted to hamburgers and chips.

"Oh, I do. Only too well."

"There isn't anyone else I can ask."

"And you can turn off the pathos. I'll go, on one condition - and one condition only," added Doyle, a negotiating gleam in his eyes.

"What?"

"That if for any reason Bodie and I can't make it to Gwyneth's for Christmas you cover for me rather than dumping me in the deep end the way you usually do."

"That's blackmail."

"True, but I don't agree otherwise. Why have you parked here? I don't like fried chicken and I'm bloody sure Isobel doesn't."

"For that we'll go to the Chinese restaurant round the corner. They do a takeaway menu and it'll cost you an arm and a leg. Serves you right. All right," said Sullivan as they studied the menu in the warmth of the restaurant, "I'll do my best with Gwyneth."

"No, you'll cover for me. I've no intention of Bodie and me waking up Christmas morning to find her beaming at us from the foot of the bed."

"No sense of adventure, that's your trouble. She wouldn't be embarrassed."

"No, but Bodie might be."

Sullivan eyed the younger man thoughtfully before placing their orders. "You'll have to kick Bodie into the family circle sooner or later."

"A lot later."

Taking advantage of the fact they were alone again Sullivan frowned. "It is serious between you, then?"

Rescued by the arrival of their order, Doyle realised there was no escape when Sullivan repeated the question the moment they were outside.

"Yes, it is. And I'll introduce him. Just give us a chance to settle down first, will you. And stop looking so worried. He's... I love him, all right?"

Meeting that belligerent stare, Sullivan gave Doyle a clap on the back that all but sent him flying. "Very. Well don't stand there dawdling, the food'll get cold."

"I don't know why you're looking so smug. You've still got to break it to Isobel that I'm playing gooseberry all evening."

That a minor detail that had escaped him until now, Sullivan's face dropped.

 

It wasn't until Monday night that Bodie had the chance to make good his promise to Doyle and inform Cowley about his new domestic arrangements. Knowing he had the ideal opportunity, Cowley's mood almost benign after a successful conclusion to the operation, Bodie took a deep breath and began.

Cowley's expression did not change throughout the stumbling explanation and when Bodie finally came to a halt he allowed a small silence to develop before saying, "I wondered when you would have the courtesy to tell me. Is it likely to be a permanent relationship?"

"Yes, sir," said Bodie woodenly, his gaze fixed on the wall above the seated man's head, this not the reaction he had been braced for.

"I see. No doubt you'll notify Control of your change of address and phone number. The house will need to be secured of course."

"I installed the system we have myself."

"That's as may be. You're aware monitoring is standard procedure."

"Not for married couples."

"You aren't married."

Bodie meet the older man's cold stare without flinching. "As good as. And we both know how little time most agents spend at home because of the monitoring. Whitehall are wasting their money. Doyle's house is as secure as my present flat and neither of us takes stupid chances."

"He'll still need to be vetted. You don't object to that, I trust?"

"Again?" said Bodie, having hoped to by-pass what he knew to be a necessity and what Doyle, when he told him, was bound to regard as something entirely different.

"Cradle to the grave. I trust I needn't remind you of the need for discretion."

"No, sir."

"I hope your confidence proves to be justified. Very well, that's all."

"There is one more thing, sir." Willing to swear he saw a wary look in Cowley's eyes, Bodie experienced a fleeting temptation to confess a fetish for ladies' underwear, more than a little angry at the older man's reaction. "I won't be... That is, I'm giving formal notice that I'm requesting the same status as married staff regarding assignments," he said in a rush.

"It's an exclusive relationship, then?"

Very close to losing his temper by this time, Bodie counted silently to three. "Yes, sir."

"Very well. I'll so note your file. No doubt you'll inform me when the situation changes."

"It won't," said Bodie shortly.

"I see."

Turning away from Cowley's scepticism Bodie stalked from the room, his expression thunderous.

Giving a faint smile once he was alone, Cowley relaxed back in his chair. Bodie had withstood that minor test better than he had expected. While less than euphoric at the news, always aware of the possible repercussions for CI5, he had been expecting it, too observant to have missed the atmosphere of sexual awareness and expectancy between the two men. He had been right in supposing they would make a good team; if all went according to plan Doyle would be a fully-fledged member of the squad within six months.

 

Dutifully dressed in his dinner jacket Doyle attended the reception on Tuesday night, his only moment of light relief gained when he exchanged a wink with Robert. Having offered the usual inane pleasantries expected of him for twenty-five minutes he considered his duty done, excusing himself from the group with a bland smile to take refuge in the shelter offered by some over-lush vegetation. The room was too hot, too crowded and full of people he had no wish to socialise with. His expression mutinous, he remained where he was, hoping to remain inconspicuous, poised for a quick getaway.

Winkled out of his hiding place by two men he had hoped to avoid Doyle plastered an expression of polite interest in place and began some surreptitious clock-watching, his patience strained when after twenty minutes the lady failed to arrive. Close enough to the doors to hear the bustle outside, and seeing the two men he had already identified as plain-clothes detectives come inconspicuously to life, Doyle rid himself of his unwanted companions.

As entrances went, Mrs Currie's was fairly spectacular, heralded by seven photographers, a gaggle of bored-looking journalists and five senior executives from the publishing house. Certain there was at least one other detective amongst her entourage, Doyle realised there must be some truth in the rumours he had heard that she had received a death threat.

Glimpsing the lady herself he recognised two familiar figures preceding her, his mouth slow to close as he saw Bodie, looking severely handsome in a dinner jacket, next to Cowley. His vantage point keeping him within earshot, the majority of those present clustered farther up the room in something resembling a formal presentation line, Doyle watched the guest of honour pin on a sincere smile and sail into the room, her hand outstretched to the accompaniment of flashing light bulbs, Mrs Currie's main claim to fame being that of offering tactless comments at the most inappropriate moments.

"Good evening, I'm Edwina Currie," she gushed, shaking the hand of the first person she saw.

"I know," said Bodie, "I'm your bodyguard."

Her smile hardly faltering, she murmured, "Splendid," released his hand and turned her attention to worthier quarry.

Almost choking on his champagne, it was with no surprise that Doyle watched Cowley buttonhole Bodie, the gist of the conversation obvious. Doyle was so busy enjoying the spectacle that he failed to notice when he was caught up in the eddy of people around Mrs Currie, finding himself listening to the fulsome praises of Tim Meacher as he was introduced. Escaping as soon as he could Doyle backed out of the crowd and into a solid body.

"What are you doing here?"

His face coming to life as he heard that low murmur Doyle turned to find himself next to Bodie, whose gaze remained on the rest of the room, assessing those around the guest of honour.

"Working, same as you. Housecalls organised this do. That's Robert over there, the guy who trained me as a waiter. You silly sod, saying that to her. I know she's a bit - "

"No you don't," interrupted Bodie, continuing to scan the room, although he had moved even closer so that their shoulders brushed. "You need to have been stuck with her since eight o'clock this morning to know that."

"No wonder you look a bit frazzled. Missed you," added Doyle, watching the room rather than Bodie lest he betray them both. He heard the heartfelt sigh.

"Same here. I should be home tonight, soon as I've got her tucked up in bed."

"Horrible thought," said Doyle, turning in time to see the grin Bodie couldn't suppress.

"You've got a warped imagination. Anyway, that's Murphy's problem. He takes over then."

"Lucky Murphy. I'm off home now - to warm the bed for you," he added, his eyes on a rapidly approaching Cowley. 

"Mr Doyle, I'm sure you'll excuse Bodie but he has work to do," said Cowley, his gaze one of frosty disapproval.

Without a backward glance Bodie melted into the crowd. Doyle cocked a thoughtful eye at the Scot. "I take it he's spoken to you?"

"Aye."

"You disapprove?"

"Did you expect congratulations?"

"Merely civility. Don't let me detain you any more." On the point of moving away he found Cowley in his path.

"Maybe I earned that," admitted the Scot with a wry sigh. "It's been a long day."

"In trying company, I would imagine," said Doyle, thawing a little as his gaze moved over to where Mrs Currie was in mid-conversational flow. "I suppose Bodie hasn't been the only sufferer. She did ask for it."

"That's no excuse for - " Meeting Doyle's sardonic gaze Cowley relaxed. "Aye, she did. You're representing Housecalls, I presume?"

"Unwillingly. Tony's the socialiser."

"You don't enjoy functions of this nature?"

"Only the money we make from them," said Doyle with truth. "Tony's manners are better than mine at this sort of occasion. Have a good evening, I've done my bit."

"Lucky man," said Cowley, assessing the room even as Bodie had.

"With all the plain-clothes men around why does Bodie need you here to hold his hand?"

"Who told you - ?"

"I have eyes, I use them," said Doyle mildly, "and they're not exactly subtle. At least CI5 supplies good tailoring." He patted his underarm.

"No, that's Bodie's vanity," said Cowley, following Doyle out into the cooler air of the foyer and nodding to two men there.

Doyle paused. "If you don't have to rush back to CI5 I'll buy you a drink," he said, surprising himself by the offer, too wary of Cowley for the Scot to be high on his list of chosen drinking companions.

"I'd like to know what it's going to cost me."

"I've got all I want from CI5," said Doyle pleasantly, leading the way out into the car park, aware of the unobtrusive figures in the shadows. "Your men?"

"Mine. I don't have a car."

"No problem. I'll run you home, or wherever - if you're not afraid of - "

"I'll risk it." Cowley paused by the Mini, giving Doyle a look of query.

"Don't you start. It's practical for London. When it starts," Doyle added sourly as turning the ignition key produced only a wheezing cough. "Hates the cold and damp, ideal for Britain, right?"

"I would have thought your taste in transport might be for something a little faster."

"It is. That's why I keep the bike. When I've got time I'll look round for something a little bigger - and faster."

"As I recall you need to watch your tendency for speeding."

"Maybe I should join CI5 and get away with it," said Doyle as he slid the Mini out into the stream of traffic. "Make it Ray, would you? I won't feel so like a suspect then."

"It didn't seem to worry you when you were."

"Good," said Doyle mildly, "but we both know it did. I'm glad we met this evening, I wanted a word with you."

"What is it you want to know?" said Cowley with resignation.

"You' re a cynical old bugger."

"Experience. What is it?"

"Will living with me screw up Bodie's career?"

The street lighting offered enough illumination for Cowley to study his profile. "Would you be willing to terminate the relationship if that was the case?"

"Are you asking if my intentions are honourable?" asked Doyle, sparing him a brief glance.

Not having expected such directness it was a moment before Cowley replied. "Yes, I believe I am."

"Personal or professional interest?" asked Doyle coolly.

"The latter," said Cowley, mildly amused. "Bodie's a good man."

"Not just for CI5 either. I'll keep him safe."

While the tone was flippant, Cowley believed him. "I'm glad to hear it. It's an expensive business training agents."

"That's something else I wanted to ask you," said Doyle, driving past two pubs. "What exactly does working for CI5 entail? What kind of work?"

"You don' t know by now?"

"Not enough."

"I'm relieved to hear Bodie has retained that much sense." He saw Doyle open his mouth, obviously angry, before he took a calming breath.

"I know he needs to keep his mind on the job, so does he. If you make him choose between CI5 and me, you'll lose him. He doesn't take kindly to ultimatums."

"Will you tell him?"

Doyle smiled. "I won't need to. Besides, I've passed my test, haven't I?"

"Unless you' re planning a scenic tour of London perhaps we could stop at the next pub. Or we can call in at my flat, it's only ten minutes away," said Cowley, adding the address.

"We' re almost neighbours."

"Relax, I'm not likely to be calling round for a bowl of sugar," Cowley reassured him. "What makes you suppose you're being tested?"

"The fact that for a man who's far from stupid you sound like an idiot," said Doyle frankly. Sparing his silenced companion a grin, he added, "There goes Bodie's Christmas bonus."

"Bodie has created something of a precedent. I should like to reassure myself that my efforts to ensure he became a precedent rather than a scapegoat won't be wasted."

"I can't give you a guarantee but I could quote you excellent odds. You've said Bodie is one of your best men - that means he's on the front line." Intent on sliding the Mini through a gap in the traffic Cowley judged to be too small for it, Doyle's expression gave nothing away.

"No one on the squad expects an easy life."

"Or a long one?" asked Doyle, as if the answer was of no more than academic interest.

"Not always."

"That's what I thought. Forewarned is forearmed and all that. What number are you?"

"Thirty-three, just beyond that BMW. You'll come up for a drink?"

Switching off the engine Doyle slowly removed the key from the ignition, toying with it. "Yes, thank you. But I can't help wondering what it will cost me in the long term."

Remembering all he knew of Doyle's varied skills Cowley looked from the incongruous Mini to the younger man's discreetly expensive tailoring. "No more than you can afford," he murmured cryptically.

 

"Where've you been?" mumbled Bodie into the darkness. "I thought you were going to warm the bed for me."

"So did I," said Doyle, bending to say hello.

"Mmmn. Scotch and you. Nice," said Bodie, showing more signs of life. "Get nobbled at the reception, did you?"

"In a manner of speaking," agreed Doyle, cooperating as his shirt was unfastened. "I went back to Cowley's place for a drink and we started chatting."

All movement stopped. "Say that again?" requested Bodie faintly.

"You heard me."

"Cowley invited you in for a drink?"

"That's right," said Doyle, leaving the bed to remove his trousers, briefs and socks.

"Did you check you still had the same number of fillings when you left? What did he want?"

"To make sure I wasn't taking advantage of you, I think, and to see if I've changed my mind about joining up."

"And?"

"Well I don't know that I want to take advantage of you but I fancy you something rotten," murmured Doyle, sliding the duvet away and offering his own body warmth as a replacement.

"And the other?"

"I'm thinking about it." Bodie raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Not often, I admit. I think Cowley approves of us." Each word was punctuated by increasingly lengthy nuzzlings.

"Well I can feel where all the blood's rushed to but I still think you're crazy."

Doyle's teeth closed gently over Bodie's left nipple, teasing it, the small pleasure/pain rushing to Bodie's cock. "Can think what you like, I know I'm right. Not that he said so, mind."

"That much doesn't surprise me. Have a nice chat, did you?"

"Better than I expected. He's not such a bad old sod once you get used to him."

Speechless, Bodie stared up at him. "You've lost your marbles," he said with conviction. "Too much solitary vice, that's your problem. What you need is - "

" - I'd like a long, slow fuck," said Doyle, producing a tube of lubricant.

"Where were you hiding that?"

"Somewhere I could reach it. Be prepared and all that. A frustrated boy-scout, that's me."

"I believe the frustrated part," murmured Bodie, his palm offering a light pressure to Doyle's penis. "But I can offer something better than my good right hand. It's your turn."

"Who's keeping score?" said Doyle, applying the cream where it would do the most good.

"Cowley probably," muttered Bodie, but he made no further protest, sliding into his lover's accepting body with a long sigh of pleasure, their movements slow and languid.

 

Emerging from the shower to find Doyle standing at the sink brushing his teeth with somnolent determination, Bodie grinned and began to towel himself dry. "I meant to say last night, if we ever meet in public again don't even blink in my direction, I could be undercover."

Doyle spat vigorously. "Gosh, I'm glad you thought of that," he breathed earnestly before continuing in his more usual tones. "Correct me if I'm wrong but who came up to whom last night?"

"Get you," snorted Bodie inelegantly, nudging Doyle out of the way and reaching for the toothpaste as Doyle's electric razor began to buzz.

"You can't stand losing, can you?" teased Doyle, running a hand down Bodie's naked spine before patting his bottom.

"No. And you're right," admitted Bodie, losing his toothpaste as he gestured with the brush. "Bugger. But keep it mind for the future. Last night was civilised. It isn't always like that. I could be dossing in a doorway, nicking a car, being beaten up or arrested. Whatever you see, ignore it."

Nodding, Doyle gravely squeezed a fresh supply of toothpaste along the bristles of Bodie's brush before steering it up to Bodie's mouth. "I won't even try to bail you out," he promised, secretly hoping it would never be put to the test.

 

"I know what I meant to ask you," said Doyle, trying to avoid the sight of Bodie working his way through a full English breakfast at this time of the morning. "What are you doing for Christmas?"

Met with an incomprehensible mumble he gave a patient sigh. "The season to be jolly, Bodie. Even you must have heard of it. Sunday's Christmas Day."

"Wow," said Bodie, displaying more interest in his eggs and bacon.

"Only I thought we could make it a special occasion as it's our first together. I've never spent Christmas in my own home before, never wanted to. It'll be great. Though I've got to warn you, as Mrs Hodges is off on holiday until the middle of January we'll be doing the cooking. Or I will," he added realistically. "I thought we could - " He was a good three minutes into his plans when he realised he didn't have Bodie's full attention. "Or doesn't the idea appeal?" he said, disappointment flattening his voice.

"Uh..." Appreciating by this time that Doyle did not share his Scrooge-like view of Christmas, Bodie put down his toast and pulled a face. "I volunteered to work right through from Christmas Eve to Boxing Day. I always do. I don't normally bother about Christmas. Anyway, I thought you always spent it with Sullivan's sister?"

"I do but I thought... It doesn't matter. But you didn't have to go to all that trouble to avoid meeting them," Doyle added, knowing he had hit a nerve when Bodie gave an uneasy twitch.

"Someone has to work those days and most people want to spend time with their families or lov - " Realising the hole he was digging for himself Bodie's voice trailed away.

"I see. Want any more coffee?"

"Ray, I didn't mean it like that," said Bodie softly, extending his hand. "I agreed the dates back in June and never gave it a thought since. I'm sorry, sunshine. Christmas depresses me - or did. The odd times I haven't worked I've drunk myself stupid and gone to bed."

"You don't have any family?" asked Doyle, taking the hand held out to him.

"None I want to see again. I'm Duty Officer Sunday and Monday, six hours on, six hours off right the way through, I can't leave headquarters. But I'm only on standby Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Couldn't we have our celebration a bit late? You're right, it would be lovely," Bodie said, squeezing Doyle's fingers.

"Course we can. I'm off until the third - we've closed everything down for the whole week. You haven't forgotten Tony's getting married on the thirty-first?" Bodie's expression betrayed that he had. "I suppose you'll be working again by then?" added Doyle dryly, but there was more resignation than bite in his tone. "You should at least meet them. They're nice people."

While prepared to concede they might have redeeming features, if only for having the good sense to take to Doyle, Bodie wasn't wholly convinced, yet to forgive Tony Sullivan for what he saw as his exploitation of Doyle. "I'm not used to families," he said awkwardly. "And they'll know I'm not good enough for you. I'll try to get the thirty-first off. Honest."

"I believe you. Thousands wouldn't. So I won't be seeing you at all over Christmas?"

Doyle sounded so wistful that Bodie was determined to swap a few hours. "I should be able to do something for Christmas Eve."

Doyle groaned. "I'll be working myself until at least eight. The week before Christmas is our busiest time and there are some things I can't get out of."

"I'm Duty Officer from eight o'clock."

"We'll have to make do with those three days then," said Doyle, trying to be philosophical about it. "If I gave you Gwyneth's number is there any chance you'd be able to give me a ring?"

"Bright and early Christmas morning," Bodie promised him.

"You would too. I'm going to buy a tree and all the trimmings," Doyle warned him with a trace of belligerence. 

"If you get them today I might even have a chance to help you put them up," said Bodie, Doyle's smile doing the oddest things to him. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Smile at me like that. I'm late for work already."

Obediently Doyle tried to switch it off. "Who said romance was dead?" he sighed, failing miserably to sound hard-done-by.

"If it's romance you want, how about me wining and dining you tonight? Candlelight? Soft music? Playing footsie under the table? Don't tell me, you'll be working."

"Every evening this week. I should be back before midnight though."

"In that case I'll stick a candle on a saucer and you can have baked beans on toast. I must go. What do you want for Christmas?" Bodie added, pausing at the kitchen door. 

Busy pouring himself some coffee Doyle said matter of factly, "I already have it. Oh, leave some rubber on your tyres when you drive off this morning, would you? I've had two complaints about the noise you made last week. What are you doing?" he added, spilling milk down himself as he was grabbed in a fierce hug.

"Making myself late for work. Love you, okay?"

"Daft sod," muttered Doyle in exasperation, but it was noticeable he didn't fight Bodie off.


	5. Chapter 5

Arriving at Gwyneth's house in the early hours of Christmas morning laden with parcels Doyle quietly let himself in and made his way to bed, grateful there was no one around he must make the effort for. Worrying what Bodie might be doing he slept badly; woken by Gareth at 6.30 in what had become a joking ritual he made the effort to respond in kind.

Having peeled a mountain of vegetables in the pool of quiet that was the kitchen he rejoined the mayhem, spending the rest of the morning at Scrabble, too abstracted to think of cheating.

"Ray, love, it's for you!"

Already in the hall, having almost sent the board flying, Doyle snatched the receiver from Gwyneth. "Hello."

"Happy Christmas, sunshine. Sorry I'm late, something came up."

"You all right?"

"Course. All the Duty Officer does is sit on his bum and ruin other people's leave. I've had to call in Cowley and five others already," said Bodie cheerfully.

"And loving every second," recognised Doyle, propping himself against the wall. "Have you got time for a chat?"

"I have now. That's why I waited. I forgot you were expecting me to ring earlier. You weren't worried, were you?" added Bodie with a trace of doubt.

"Of course I wasn't. Well, a bit. Happy Christmas," said Doyle, beginning to believe it, having all but buried Bodie in the hours between eleven and one.

They talked for half an hour before instinct made Doyle turn to find Gwyneth glaring at him and pointing at her watch. "Uh, I think Gwyneth is trying to tell me lunch is ready."

"Was it her I spoke to?"

"That's right."

"She sounded better than I imagined from what you'd said. She's listening, I take it?"

"That's right," Doyle repeated.

Bodie chuckled. "Been there long, has she?"

"I hope not," said Doyle in heartfelt tones, the warmth of Bodie's chuckle rippling through him. "Don't," he said involuntarily.

"Do what? Oh. Getting to you is it?"

"What do you think?"

"That now's my golden chance. I bet I could turn you on something chronic if you're in that kind of mood."

"No bet," said Doyle with some haste. "And you wouldn't, not here. Anyway, I thought all your calls were monitored?"

"I'm on a private line," said Bodie smugly.

"I should've known. Will you - ?" Gwyneth reappeared in his line of vision and Doyle trailed off into silence.

"I'll ring you tomorrow. You'd better go, sunshine," Bodie added gently.

"I know. Er, I - "

" - love you too. 'Bye."

Taking a deep breath Doyle replaced the receiver, unconscious of his betraying smile or the pat he gave it. 

"I'm sorry for interrupting, love. I thought it was only a business call," apologised Gwyneth.

"That's okay. I forgot the time, sorry."

"That was a friend of yours, was it?"

"Mmn."

"Your young man?" she added, never one to beat about the bush.

About to prevaricate Doyle recognised the loving anxiety behind her bravado and melted. "That's him," he agreed, steering her into the kitchen.

Ignoring the waiting-to-be-served lunch Gwyneth subjected him to a lengthy survey, nodding in satisfaction as she saw lines of laughter rather than tension back in evidence. "He sounded a nice boy." The effort it cost her not to ask more was painfully obvious.

"I don't know about nice," Doyle mused, "and twenty-seven's a bit old to be called a boy. His name's Bodie and he works for CI5. That's where he is today. We've been living together since the middle of October."

"There's lovely. Living with you? That is... Is he good to you?"

"And for me," confirmed Doyle, giving her a rare hug.

"When do I get to meet him?" she asked briskly. "What's he like?"

"When I can convince him he won't face an inquisition regarding his intentions and prospects. He's got hollow legs and a rotten sense of humour and he likes to come across as Mr Smooth but when you get to know him he's... Bodie. I think you'll like him."

"But it doesn't matter if I don't," she recognised.

Doyle didn't even hesitate. "No, he's too important."

Patting his hand, Gwyneth smiled. "That's as it should be. He must be a good boy, you look more like yourself now."

"I feel it now I know he's stuck in headquarters for two days. He said he'd ring first thing."

"You always were a worrier, just like our Tony," she said comfortably, steamrollering whatever denial he had been about to make. "Bring him round one day when I've got the place to myself. I'll not embarrass him."

Doyle gave a wicked grin. "Ten quid says you manage it in the first five minutes. I know you."

"Aunty Gwyneth, I'm starving and - "

"My word, the time. We'll miss the Queen's speech at this rate," she scolded, softening her reproach to Doyle by giving him a swift kiss just before Gareth, quickly followed by her own three offspring, invaded the kitchen. 

 

Busy reversing into a parking space that was a tight fit even for the Mini, Doyle narrowly missed colliding with the lamp-post upon realising the man perched on the bonnet of the white Ghia behind him was Bodie.

"I didn't expect to see you until midnight," he exclaimed, having wasted little extra time on parking the car.

"Nor did I. Time off for good behaviour. The op was a wrap, no casualties on our side and all the goodies intact. Cowley's full of the milk of human kindness and Glenfiddich. That's Murph in the car," Bodie added, jerking a thumb back in the direction of the Ghia. "We've been working together on a few things and Cowley's got something else lined up for us."

"Yeah, you've mentioned him before," said Doyle, his interest in Murphy minimal at the moment.

"I invited him in for a drink," Bodie added in a rueful undertone, grinning when he saw Doyle's fleeting dismay. "Yeah. Thought I had an evening to kill. That's a horrible bit of parking," he added in his normal tones, taking his eyes off Doyle for the first time.

"You do better," suggested Doyle, tossing him the keys, "while I get acquainted with Murph."

"I'm sorry," muttered Bodie.

"I left Gwyneth's early just in case," Doyle admitted. 

Revolted by Bodie's air of satisfaction, he added, "It was the cooking I was thinking of."

"Liar," said Bodie with confidence.

"Go park the car, hotshot. Evening," Doyle added, strolling over to the other car, "I'm Ray Doyle. Come inside while Bodie makes a worse job of parking the Mini than I did."

"He'll wait till we've gone and then reverse this to give himself room," said Murphy, giving Doyle a friendly grin as he left the driving seat.

"You've got his measure I see. Are you two teaming up permanently?"

"Not as far as I know. But we've known each other a while," said Murphy, following Doyle inside the house, busy making his own assessment in the light of his newly-acquired knowledge. Even though he had no preconceived ideas, Ray Doyle wasn't what he had expected. 

Wondering if this amiable, dark-haired man was competent enough to keep his lover alive Doyle gave an absent nod. "Have you been in CI5 long?"

Murphy gave a faint grin. "Almost as long as Bodie. We've both seen each other's file as we work together off and on. I'll watch his back, just as he'll watch mine. He'll be safe enough with me."

"Shit, I thought I was being subtle," sighed Doyle. "You took it well."

"It's no more than Cindy will ask Bodie when they meet up," shrugged Murphy.

"Cindy?"

"She and I live together." Like you and Bodie hung unspoken in the air.

Doyle began to pay Murphy his full attention. "Bodie must trust you."

"He wouldn't work with me otherwise, Cowley or no Cowley. Or me with him."

Doyle nodded. "What will you have to drink?"

"I could murder a cup of tea," said Murphy, relieved his interrogation was over, yet to decide about Ray Doyle. "Can I give you a hand?"

"Not necessary. Have you eaten?"

Murphy tried for decent reticence. "Not recently."

"In that case, follow me. I thought I recognised the signs. Doesn't Cowley ever feed his staff?"

"Only to the lions. I won't be butting in?" Murphy added without thinking. Feeling the temperature drop a good twenty degrees, he pulled a face. "I told you, we've seen each other's file. Does my knowing you're lovers bother you?"

"No, I love being a gossiping point for half of CI5."

"You're not _that_ interesting. Cindy wasn't too happy about it either. She still isn't. I'll toddle off," Murphy added in the same pleasant tone.

"Why are all the beautiful dark-haired men I know broody?" sighed Doyle. "That wasn't meant for you in particular."

"Cowley, I presume."

"Who else? What d'you fancy to eat?"

"A table leg with a little seasoning would go down well right now," said Murphy, relaxing once more.

"Steak, oven chips and apple pie then. There's lager in the fridge if you want some. You'd better start learning your way around the kitchen, I'll probably be seeing more of you while the pair of you are teamed."

"The same as Bodie will Cindy," agreed Murphy placidly. "We live at her place."

"I don't blame you. Who was the genius who decided bugging flats would be a good idea?" asked Doyle, throwing Murphy a couple of onions for peeling before he set the microwave.

"Don't ask. Waste of time because no one in their right mind takes anyone..." Murphy paused, very obviously swallowing the question on the tip of his tongue.

Unsmiling, Doyle turned, read the apprehension on his face and began to laugh. "Do I look stupid? Has anyone ever been caught?" he added, satisfied Murphy had accepted the status quo.

"Funny you should say that..."

They were laughing too much by the end of Murphy's recital to notice Bodie's arrival in the kitchen.

 

When Murphy, too wise to outstay his welcome, left just before eight o'clock, the two men eyed each other speculatively.

"Three days," murmured Doyle.

"And a bit. What shall we do to fill the time?"

"We could start by switching on the Ansafone. And you could lose your RT."

"It's in the boot of the car. The tree looks great, doesn't it?"

"First one I've had since I was knee-high," mused Doyle, his arm around Bodie as they looked at it.

"Me, too."

"Bed?"

"Presents first, then bed," said Bodie firmly. "I didn't risk life and limb in the shops for nothing."

"Why don't we open them in bed?" said Doyle, collecting up an armful from those sitting around the tree.

"Just so long as you're careful with the Sellotape."

Bodie was relieved to discover Doyle shared his own views on the subject of presents, dissolving into open giggles by the time he succeeded in opening the mammoth box that after eight well-wrapped layers proved to hold a Mr Universe body-building book and a chest expander.

Their present unwrapping was a leisurely affair of laughter, insults and shared kisses until Doyle discovered an envelope. It contained a letter from a well-known firm of decorators confirming a booking for whatever work might be required at a date to be mutually agreed, the bill to be paid by a Mr W. Bodie. Looking up in question Doyle found Bodie watching him with a trace of anxiety.

"I knew you must be a bit strapped for cash by the car and the fact you've been doing the decorating. Thought this might be useful. The firm's good," Bodie assured his speechless companion.

"Strapped for cash?" echoed Doyle.

"Why else would anyone do it themselves?" said Bodie reasonably. "Well now there's no need. It's not very romantic though," he added with regret.

Doyle just gave him a fierce hug, his eyes smarting, realising how much thought Bodie had put into choosing something he thought was needed. "'S perfect," he said huskily. 

"Don't take on so. There's that one to open yet."

"What is it?" asked Doyle, eyeing the large Christmas-wrapped package with mistrust.

"Your other pressie of course."

"But I've got - " Doyle gestured to the bed, his gifts ranging from a toy Porsche to chocolate he knew Bodie would eat to a Paul Smith silk shirt the colour of a robin's egg.

"Just open it," said Bodie, sounding embarrassed

Having to get out of bed to do so, Doyle stared at the CD player and collection of discs to go with it, Mozart, Haydn, Bach, The Clash, Sex Pistols and The Jam all meeting with his approval. Picking up one of the discs, he waved it under Bodie's nose. "The Scots Fusiliers - bagpipes? Is this for our cosy evenings with Cowley?"

"You guessed," said Bodie, his disappointed tones causing Doyle to crack up completely; it would have taken very little.

"I've been meaning to get one of these. How did you know?"

"You're always playing the stereo. These are meant to be better. I wouldn't know, don't have stereophonic ears. As for them," Bodie shrugged, "I checked your record collection. Incidentally, while I'll put up with a lot, save the Sex Pistols till I'm out, there's a mate. What's that?" He stared at the slim, expensively-wrapped box Doyle fished from under the bed.

"If you opened it you might find out. Wondered where it had got to."

The slim gold Patek Philippe watch deprived Bodie of speech.

"You're no Superman, thank god, but I didn't want you getting delusions of grandeur. It's as close as I could find to the one you used to have."

"The hell it is. This is... You shouldn't have - "

"Don't even think it," Doyle warned him.

"No, but... It's twenty-four carat gold," Bodie discovered.

"The bloke on the market stall swore it wouldn't turn green on your wrist," Doyle agreed, all wide-eyed innocence.

Because there wasn't room on the bed they made love on the floor, tangled in wrapping paper and in Doyle's case a piece of sellotape that Bodie took great care in unpeeling.

 

Having failed to get the day off for Sullivan's wedding, and knowing he hadn't pressed the point as hard as he might have done, by way of a penance Bodie got up early to make Doyle breakfast, aware Ray had a long day ahead of him.

"Guilty conscience?" asked Doyle, eyeing the laden tray with amusement.

"Know-all. You've cleaned your teeth," Bodie discovered.

"And had a pee."

"I know now probably isn't the time," said Bodie, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "but there's something I should have told you a while ago. Forgot."

"Tell me the worst," invited Doyle, helping himself to the orange juice.

"You're being re-vetted. It's standard practice for any long-term lover," Bodie assured him.

"Mmn. And?"

"Well that's it. You don't mind?" checked Bodie, wondering if Doyle was awake after all.

"Considering Cowley found out all the juicy bits months ago I couldn't give a toss. Anyway, I was expecting it. He doesn't intend to bug this place, I hope?"

"He'd better not."

"My thoughts exactly. But to make sure, I'm having McKenna's in once a month to check so we'll soon find out," said Doyle serenely.

"I could fall in love with you all over again," said Bodie, clambering back into bed beside him. "That's brilliant."

"I thought so," agreed Doyle modestly. "Oy, that's my breakfast you're eating!"

"Dream on, sunshine, I made enough for two. Though if I'd known you were going to take the news this well I wouldn't have bothered."

"You know what you are?"

"Handsome, debonair, irresistible?" suggested Bodie, knowing he was safe from retribution with coffee still on the tray. Doyle chewed, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Close," he allowed. "Did you know there's only one knife and fork?"

"That's okay, we can share." Resigned, Doyle relinquished the fork.

 

Bodie had never liked January, finding it a depressing month. It began badly, his scores in the quarterly assessment well below par, earning him trenchant comments from everyone, not least Macklin and Crane. Knowing they were justified didn't sweeten Bodie's mood. Even more irritating were the comments that flew round the squad room whenever he entered it, although a few well-chosen stares silenced most of the witticisms. He had known the fact he was living with a male lover wouldn't remain a secret; to his surprise that piece of news caused scarcely a ripple, few of Cowley's team rigid thinkers. The jokes about the idle rich and toy boys were the ones Bodie didn't understand, the more so because there was no one he could ask to explain them without feeling a fool. Withdrawing into himself, and saying nothing about it to Doyle, he settled down to regain his former placing with a sullen determination

In Sullivan's absence Doyle had taken on a punishing workload, rarely home before ten in the evening and often out of the house before Bodie; what little time they had together he spent working on papers, or taking phone calls that were incomprehensible to Bodie. It began to dawn on Bodie that he had little idea of what Doyle did for a living; casual questions eliciting nothing helpful, and too proud to push the point, Bodie began to wonder if Doyle thought he was too stupid to understand or if he just couldn't be bothered to make the effort to explain.

Never having been one to watch television or read much and his free time dragging, Bodie began to go out for a drink with squad members, or for games of squash and darts, trying not to notice any cruising talent, of whatever sex. He became increasingly irritated when Doyle gave no sign of noticing his absence.

Letting himself in one night just before midnight and finding Doyle working in the study, Bodie's frustration spilled over.

"You're running yourself ragged just so Sullivan can go swanning off in the sun," he said, having waited in vain to be noticed.

"Hello. Don't exaggerate," said Doyle mildly, penciling in a marginal note on the report balanced on his chest. "It isn't every day he gets married."

"You didn't get a month off when I moved in."

"Considering you seem to be lucky if you get two consecutive days off there wouldn't be much point, would there?"

Bodie was in no mood to return Doyle's grin. "Is that for Housecalls?"

"No. You know I do some consultancy work, sod's law says it all comes home to roost at once. It's a business plan, or it's supposed to be, but the projections are shit and I've got a meeting with the accountants and bankers tomorrow. Never mind," he added, afraid of boring Bodie. "Look, it's stupid for you to waste what little free time you have watching me work - and I do have to. Why don't you go out for a drink with some mates? I won't mind." And it would be better than watching you sulk, he added silently.

"I have been. I've just got back."

"That's all right then," said Doyle absently, his attention already returned to work.

Bodie glared at the absorbed profile, feeling closed out from Doyle's life. "Don't you want to know who with?"

Open surprise on his face Doyle looked up. "Why should I? I don't own you. You'll tell me if you want to."

"And if I don't?" asked Bodie with a dangerous calm. It lost much of its effectiveness when he had to repeat that to gain Doyle's attention.

"Don't be daft," Doyle dismissed.

"You don't talk much about your work," accused Bodie, trying again.

"Nor do you. If it wasn't for Murph I wouldn't have a clue what you were doing."

"He's got a slack mouth."

"Bullshit." On the point of asking Bodie if it was his assessment results that were bothering him Doyle thought the better of it.

"The last thing I want to do is talk about CI5 in my spare time."

"What makes you suppose I want to talk about work in mine?" asked Doyle, although he knew that wasn't the whole truth, Bodie's daunting competence and chosen field of work something he could not forget, his own activities seeming pedestrian in comparison. He spent much of his time fighting the urge to prove himself to his own, if not Bodie's, satisfaction. This is ridiculous, he realised suddenly. "Tell you what, tomorrow I'll make sure I'm home before eight and we'll go out, make it a special evening."

"Don't bother on my account," snapped Bodie, stalking from the room and slamming the door behind him.

Doyle debated throwing the report at the back of his head but decided to follow him instead, tracking Bodie to the bathroom where, to judge from the gushing bath taps, Bodie was planning to drown his sorrows. "It helps if you put the plug in first," he remarked, propping himself in the doorway.

Emerging from the black polo-neck Bodie wheeled round. Suddenly seeing the funny side to this his nose wrinkled engagingly. "Sorry."

"So I should think," said Doyle, taking the still-warm sweater from him, his fingertips tracing lightly over Bodie's naked torso. "If we're going to have a row at least let's make it over something big. Work should ease up soon. It's not just because Tony's away; a mate of his has dug himself into a financial hole and I promised . . . I've committed myself to this. I can't back out now."

Pausing only to turn off the taps Bodie padded back to him. "No," he conceded with resignation, "you wouldn't be able to. D'you take many charity cases?"

"He's not... A few."

"Charity begins at home. Yes, I mean me," Bodie added acidly. "You've had a long day I know but - "

"No buts necessary. Ready, willing and able - I hope."

"Fancy playing with your Porsche?"

It was a moment before Doyle remembered the Corgi toy model included amongst his presents. "It'll get rusty in the bath. What I had in mind doesn't need water. Been out of the saddle for too long," he mused, taking Bodie's buttocks in a possessive clasp.

"You want to go riding at this time of night?"

Doyle gave him a pitying smile. "Can tell I don't love you for your quick wits." He nipped at Bodie's neck.

"Oh, that kind of a ride."

"Yeah. What do you think?"

"That we'll be more comfortable in bed."

"I haven't showered yet."

"Nor have I," said Bodie, hauling him into the bedroom. 

Doyle dug his heels in. "Or cleared up downstairs."

"It can wait," said Bodie, getting him moving by the simple expedient of tickling him.

"That's cheating!"

"All's fair, etcetera. Get your clothes off."

"Or set the alarms," said Doyle wickedly as he complied.

Balanced on one leg as he removed his briefs, Bodie grimaced. "They can - no they can't. Bugger, I'll see to it," he sighed.

"I don't believe I'm hearing this," said Doyle, trailing after him and enjoying the sight of Bodie at naked full stretch as he set the alarms and checked the safety catches.

"Christ, I could take you right here," he murmured throatily, trapping Bodie between the front door and himself, his tumescence rubbing the cleft of Bodie's buttocks.

Warm hands reached back to drag him closer. "Go on then."

 

Having fallen to his knees on the front doormat Bodie's bowed head slowly rose; half-turning, he managed to kiss the man draped over him. "I'm frozen," he said prosaically, "and there's a gale coming in through the letter-box."

"Is there," said Doyle, with no interest whatsoever.

"This matting's playing hell with my knees, too."

"Shame."

"You'll have to do some cleaning tomorrow. Can't leave everything until Mrs Hodges gets back from her holidays."

"What makes you think that?" asked Doyle, rising with distinct reluctance, his legs unsteady from the small storm that had swept over them.

"The fact I came all over the front door. I wonder if it'll take the varnish off?" Bodie added, allowing Doyle to help him up until they stood shoulder to unsteady shoulder.

"I wonder about you sometimes. Of course it won't. If it can stand up to an English winter it can certainly stand up to a teaspoonful of you spilled over it."

"Teaspoon!"

"Wouldn't matter if it was a pint, which it wasn't," said Doyle, mid-yawn, before he shivered. "Christ, it's cold down here."

"I told you so but you wouldn't listen."

"It was your fault for doing all that stretching bollock-naked," said Doyle as, leaning against each other, they began to climb the stairs.

"You know what I'd really like to do," murmured Bodie, coming to a halt.

Doyle gave him a wary look. "Amaze me."

"We seem to be trying out every room in the house, and I remember you saying you've never had it away on the stairs. Nor have I. You'd look lovely draped over the banisters," he added wistfully.

"Not a chance," said Doyle, hauling him up the last two stairs. "What if I get vertigo?"

"You could always close your eyes," said Bodie, unwilling to abandon such a wonderful plan.

"Why me? I'll close yours in a minute. You'll want us to swing from a chandelier next. Take it from an expert, the tried and tested ways are the best - most comfortable too. No, don't get into bed yet, the light's better in the bathroom and I want to check you out."

"What?" asked Bodie, padding after him.

"Just bend over, will you," said Doyle, watching with disbelief as Bodie kept his back firmly to the wall, his face a little pink. "Bodie?" he asked worriedly.

"That's . . . personal," he said lamely.

"And fucking you on the front doormat isn't? All we had was saliva. I want to make sure I didn't hurt you."

"Did I sound like I was hurt?"

"No, but - "

"There you are then."

Doyle made no further argument, his gaze on nothing in particular as he worried his lower lip.

Giving a defeated sigh Bodie turned, bending to grip the sink for support. "Go on then," he said with resignation, his forehead resting on his wrists.

He shivered as a light kiss was planted first on his left buttock, then his right. The sponge and warm trickles of water made him gasp, quiver and bite his bottom lip. He withstood being patted dry with some fortitude but the gentle touches before slickly anointed fingers entered him were his undoing and he gave a soft groan of pleasure. They ended up in a sticky tangle, their heads under the sink, Doyle's elbow jammed up against the toilet bowl, Bodie's against the side of the bath.

"Romantic, isn't it," said Doyle with a dazed look around him before he began to giggle, light-headed with fatigue.

"It'll do. Was your fault anyway," continued Bodie, knowing he lacked the energy to move yet. "D'you realise that at this rate the only unadorned carpets will be those in the spare bedrooms and the stairs."

"I should do," said Doyle as they slowly wriggled apart, "I've got the carpet burns to prove it. I could sleep for a week."

"After you've showered," said Bodie, picking a quantity of fluff from Doyle's flank.

"If you're that fussy you'll have to do it," mumbled Doyle, half asleep already.

Steering him under the shower Bodie did just that, drying them both before sliding into bed next to him.

"Was a lovely evening after all," said Doyle in a slurred voice.

"Tomorrow might be even better. I've just remembered, you can't suffer from vertigo, you go rock-climbing," said Bodie with triumph.

Doyle gave a heartfelt moan. "Anywhere you like, but not," he added with what he hoped was finality, "the banisters."

"Anywhere?"

Opening one drowsy eye Doyle gave an unexpectedly sweet smile. "If it matters that much. Go t' sleep."

 

Having overslept, the morning offered little time in which to cement the return of peaceful relations. After twelve hours on surveillance, stuck with Turner, whom he couldn't stand, Bodie's mood wasn't brightened when Doyle didn't return home until nearly one a.m.

On this occasion Bodie managed to keep all his angry suspicions to himself until he recognised the smears of lipstick and mascara on Doyle's shirt.

"Another heavy day at work? I bet you've even got a good story to explain this away?"

His face pale, Doyle gave him a look of near disinterest. Alan Pearson having dropped dead after a massive coronary mid-way through their meeting he had taken it on himself to tell his widow, dealing with the necessary formalities and then waiting with her until her married daughter had arrived; it hadn't been a pleasant twelve hours. "You'd lose," he said, walking out of the room.

That night Bodie occupied the spare bedroom, leaving the house before Doyle was up the following morning. The continuing surveillance leaving him with far too much time for rational thought Bodie was in no hurry to go home, aware by now that he might have been guilty of leaping to yet another wrong conclusion. Released from duty he made a point of seeking out Lewis, who he had discovered was the agent responsible for vetting Doyle.

The honours even after their two games of squash, Bodie bought the first round of drinks and found a quiet booth they could occupy. "What are you up to these days?" he asked pleasantly.

Lewis gained himself some time by helping himself to a handful of peanuts from the packet Bodie had bought. "This and that."

"Yeah? I know the Cow's got you tailing Ray."

"Is that why you suggested the game of squash?"

Approving of the other man's unflustered style Bodie shook his head. "You know better than that. It wasn't hard to work out. Ray would recognise most of the others, he's met enough of us. Nice cushy job for you. Given the hours Ray's working at the moment while Sullivan's on holiday it can't be too taxing. Want me to bug him for you, save you the leg work?"

"Would you?" Lewis took another handful of peanuts, his expression giving nothing away.

"No. And not only because I like living. Ray's clean." Bodie's confidence on that score was total and unfeigned, his doubts on a wholly different tack, the unreasoning worm of jealousy refusing to die.

"I'm inclined to believe you. Not that I should be telling you this of course."

"Telling me what? I already knew it was you. How much longer have you got to go?"

"Until Cowley tells me to stop. Haven't put many hours in so far. Needn't have wasted yesterday. It couldn't have been much fun having a client die on you. Doyle looked rough by the end. He okay?"

Dumb, Bodie nodded.

"I reckon a brass band could have followed him and he wouldn't have noticed. I tailed him home to make sure he made it okay. He looked knackered. But then, consoling grieving widows isn't my line. I remember when . . ."

Bodie missed the ensuing reminiscences, guiltily aware he had done it again. And with what justification? But his sense of insecurity remained, finding it incomprehensible that he could keep Doyle happy.

". . . halfway across London today. Cowley will freak out when he sees my expenses," continued Lewis, unaware he had only just regained Bodie's attention. "Lunch at Hoopers, dinner at Les Amies."

"Life's hell," sympathised Bodie on an automatic level. 

"It's getting that way. I know Doyle might be working but I have to order something and it's sinful just to inhale it. All this rich food is playing hell with my waistline and Macklin will kill me if I don't lose some weight in time for the next round of assessments. Must be great living the high life all the time - drinks with Lady Richardson, lunch with Sir Edward Walker, tea at the Ritz with the Attorney General's daughter. You should see the prices at Hoopers, even for hamburgers."

"I have," said Bodie, his expression bland, having lost all desire to smile. The reference to Fiona didn't worry him at all, aware that the relationship had fizzled out of its own accord. But Juliet Richardson was a different matter. She'd dug her claws into Ray years ago and for all her age she was a nice-looking woman. Rich, too.

"And I shouldn't be telling you any of this," said Lewis, abruptly recalled to himself.

"I didn't hear a word," Bodie promised him, adroitly changing the subject. He knew Lewis would probably confess his breach of security to Cowley but that didn't worry him half as much as the fact Doyle had been seeing Juliet Richardson. Ray hadn't mentioned her for months. But then he wouldn't if he'd been seeing her on the quiet, reminded the insistent voice of doubt.

Drinking steadily throughout the evening Bodie was on the point of going home, determined to have the matter out with Doyle, when he received an A1 priority call. It was a week before he had the chance to think of Doyle, all his concentration focussed on staying alive.

 

Almost punch-drunk with fatigue Bodie left Newcastle some time after three a.m. and drove straight through the night, every thought centred on the fact he was going home because home was wherever Ray might be. The last part of his journey better than he had anticipated due to the fact he was driving against the flow of early morning commuter traffic, he parked the car and his bag in one hand headed for the house, hoping for at least a few minutes with Doyle before he had to leave for work.

 

"Gareth, for the fourth time will you get a bloody move on!" yelled Doyle, thumping on the bathroom door. "You're going to be late!"

"I'm coming!"

"That's what you said twenty minutes ago," said Doyle, moderating his voice as the door opened. "You're not even dressed yet," he added in disgust.

"Nor are you," Gareth pointed out. "Fall asleep, did you? It's a sign of old age when - " Breaking off, he evaded Doyle's lunge in his direction. "Missed!"

"If you get any taller I won't have a chance of clipping you round the ear," said Doyle, eyeing the healthy young giant in front of him with a pensive eye.

"You couldn't do it now," jeered Gareth.

"You want to bet?" asked Doyle silkily.

"An old man like you?" scoffed Gareth, feinting to the left.

Their mock fight took them across the landing and down the stairs, knocking over the telephone table and sending a chair flying, both impeded by the fact they were laughing so much.

"What was that about an old man?" asked Doyle breathlessly, his arm lock threatening Gareth's air supply. 

Abruptly Gareth stopped struggling, the unexpected relaxation of tension causing Doyle to stagger, half draped over him. "Ray, there's - "

Bodie crossed the threshold, his bag sliding from his hand as he took in the sight of the entwined, half-naked men in front of him.

"You cunt," he said flatly, disillusion stark on his face. Before either Doyle or Gareth could react he stalked down the hall, wrenched Doyle free and laid him out with a right hook that Doyle never saw coming. By the time Doyle had bounced from the wall to the floor Bodie had collected his bag, the slamming front door the only sound in the hall.

Crouched over Doyle, who stirred the moment the cold cloth touched his skin, Gareth gave a sigh of relief and sat back on his heels. "I thought he'd killed you for a moment. Are you all right or should I call an ambulance before the police?" Beneath his attempt at practicality his voice shook.

"No," said Doyle, propping himself up on one elbow and blinking as the hall seemed to blur and sway before settling into focus.

"Then I'll ring for the police."

"No! No police," Doyle said, emotion flattened from his voice now, making it sound unfamiliar.

"Ray, we have to report... Who was that?" asked Gareth, badly shaken and worried by the blank-faced control of the man he had known for as long as he could remember.

"A friend." Making it to his feet at his second attempt Doyle leant back against the wall, too shaken to produce a more convincing explanation, a sickness that owed nothing to the pain from his swelling mouth spreading through him. So much for Bodie's trust. First Isobel, then Geraldine Pearson, now Gareth. What made it unbearable was the fact Bodie could believe he would even think of one of Tony's sons sexually. For a moment Doyle fought against physical nausea, swallowing hard.

"He had a key," said Gareth with unusual hesitancy, Doyle's attention seeming far from himself.

"He lives here. Bodie and I are - were - lovers," said Doyle tonelessly, his gaze on the closed front door.

"Lovers!" Shock evident on his face, unconsciously-formed preconceptions tumbling around his ears at that announcement, which denied all he thought he knew of Ray Doyle, Gareth made a valiant effort to recover. "When did the relationship end?"

"About five minutes ago."

"But if you were... Why did he attack you?"

"Good question." Wrapping his gaping towelling robe tightly around his waist, only now appreciating he was naked beneath it, Doyle's glance flickered over Gareth, who was naked but for skimpy purple briefs. To someone who consistently believed the worst they must have presented a very compromising picture to anyone who didn't know Gareth - or himself. "Bodie misinterpreted what he saw. He must have thought..." Seeing Gareth flush he allowed his voice to trail away.

"Oh. But that's rubbish," said Gareth a moment later. "You've known me since I was a kid. You wouldn't ...you know."

"I know," said Doyle, trying to offer a reassuring smile, but it required too much effort to respond, Gareth seeming more distanced by the minute.

"You should lie down," said Gareth, more worried by that smile than anything Doyle had said so far. It was then that he decided to find this Bodie and kick his teeth in. "I'll go and get dressed," he added, marching towards the stairs, his shoulders set with determination. Slow to stir, his anger had been roused not so much by the violence of the scene that had taken place as by the stricken look in Doyle's eyes as he continued to stare at the front door, as if expecting someone to come through it. Unused to seeing people he cared for hurt, Gareth was dealing with it in the only way he knew.

A bitter twist to his mouth Doyle remained where he was, misinterpreting the reason for Gareth's haste. Not that he blamed him. This wasn't how he had planned to break the news to him. It began to dawn on him that he might have lost something else apart from Bodie this morning. Somehow that didn't seem to matter as much as it should have done.

Realising Doyle hadn't moved, Gareth leant precariously over the banisters from the upper landing. "Go and lie down, Ray. I'm glad you told me," he added awkwardly. "It doesn't change anything."

Even Doyle could recognise the lie. "Of course it doesn't. I'm sorry you got caught up in it. Go and get dressed. I'll ring the school and explain it's my fault you'll be late."

It was then that Gareth realised how shaken Doyle must be. "It's a free weekend, Ray. I don't have to be back until tomorrow. Don't worry, I have to go out. I should be back about six."

It was a moment before Doyle replied. "No, go home, Gareth. There are some things I need to sort out because I'll be going away for while."

He spoke to the air. Having remembered where he had heard the name Bodie before, Gareth had gone off to find a telephone directory.

 

Bodie hadn't dared to take a second glance at the beautiful dark-haired adolescent in Doyle's embrace: it would have been a pleasure to kill him, both of them. No wonder Doyle hadn't made any fuss about the days he had to spend away from home... Discovering himself to be driving down the King's Road with no idea of his destination he pulled up opposite the Gateway supermarket, parking illegally on a double yellow line. Ignoring the hooting of the taxi behind him he stared through the windscreen, his gaze locked on the middle distance. It was one of the rare occasions in his adult life when he didn't know what to do next. He didn't even know where he should go; his home was...

Cutting the realisation short he absently flexed his sore hand, aware he had reacted like a rank amateur. Could have broken it, he mused. Even with his eyes closed he could still see those two beautiful male bodies close-entwined. From the laughing ease between them it was obviously no one night stand, the man a welcome visitor. Welcomed by Ray who had never opened his home to anyone.

And I fell for it.

It took all Bodie's control not to turn the car round and head back to Chelsea.

 

Arriving at headquarters just after ten because he had been unable to think of anywhere else to go, Bodie went in via the back entrance to find himself being hailed by an amused-looking Murphy.  
"There you are. I've been looking for you."

Various possibilities flashed through Bodie's mind; his schooled expression betrayed none of them. "And now you've found me. What's up?"

"I dunno but there's a young fire-eater threatening to tear up interrogation room one. He rang through to Control, claiming it was vital he saw you. Wouldn't give a name or any details. It's a quiet day so Lucas and McCabe went to collect him. He wasn't armed, but he's still steaming. No one can get anything out of him."

"What nationality?"

"English. Very. Public school I'd say. What have you been up to?" Murphy's smile faded as he became aware of Bodie's dangerous calm, having seen him like this only once before.

"Me?" The denial sounded unconvincing even to Bodie's ears.

Very sober now, Murphy cast him a concerned glance. "Are you all right, mate? You look - "

"Think I'm coming down with flu. Get rid of the fire-eater, I'm not in the mood for mysteries."

"No. I think you should look at him."

"Do you. Well when you take over from Cowley I might listen to you." Already turning away, Murphy's voice brought him to a standstill.

"I don't think this is CI5 business. Or mine," he added as Bodie spun round. "But I'm off at mid-day. If you need a hand let me know. I'll be in the armoury. Get it sorted out, Bodie. Cowley's due in any time now."

"Oh christ, I suppose I'd better," said Bodie heavily.

Left standing in the middle of the corridor, trying not to speculate on what was going on, a glance at the clock returned Murphy to his own concerns.

Bodie found Lucas and McCabe in the room adjoining the interrogation room, their desultory attention on the two-way mirror that revealed the boy pacing round the next room. One glance was enough to make Bodie stop in his tracks, dismissing both men out of hand. He wanted no witnesses to this conversation.

 

"I want to talk to you," said Gareth aggressively the moment the door opened, refusing to be intimidated by his surroundings. "What right d'you have to come barging in and - " The expression of supercilious boredom on Bodie's face was the last straw.

Before Bodie, whose thoughts were far removed from self-protection, could think to defend himself, Gareth hit him. Caught off-balance and taken by surprise, the blow connected, although Bodie's reflexes were such that it did not inflict the damage it should have done. It was still enough to send him stumbling against the wall. His attacker's cut-off exclamation stopped Bodie in his tracks, his lethal hands relaxing when he realised he faced a rank amateur who was, despite his size, even younger than he had first assumed. A boy in fact. A beautiful boy.

"Have you broken a finger?" he asked prosaically, taking Gareth's hand from where he had tucked it in a vain attempt to reduce the pain.

"You bastard!" Humiliatingly aware of the tears of pain he couldn't control, Gareth snatched his hand away and lunged at Bodie in an uncoordinated attack. He found only air, Bodie's defensive twist taking him feet away; he looked resigned rather than threatening.

"You didn't give Ray a chance, you bastard," accused Gareth.

This time Bodie blocked the blow, using the minimum of force. He didn't make war with beautiful children.

Gareth stopped as if he had run into a brick wall. Blinking, he began to take the measure of his opponent, realising he was outclassed. It wasn't enough to stop him but it made him careful. Again he found only air, breathing heavily by now.

"Enough," said Bodie, his weight evenly balanced, his arms folded in front of his chest. "I don't want to hurt you." He looked as unruffled as when he had first entered the room.

"Like you didn't want to hurt Ray, I suppose? You could've killed him." Aware of the shake in his voice, Gareth stopped.

"I'm not prepared to discuss Doyle with you, whatever rights you imagine you have. This isn't the place for you. Get out, while you still can."

The young face tightened, the determined chin lifting a little. "Are you threatening me?"

Bodie gave a slow smile. "If I do you won't be in any doubt about it. Go home, son."

"Don't you even care that Ray could be - "

"Could be what?"

"You could have killed him," said Gareth in a small voice, standing his ground as Bodie stalked him only because he was frozen to the spot, all too aware of this formidable man's power.

"And did I? I asked you a question. Don't make me repeat it," said Bodie, the silken menace in his voice unmistakable.

"You're mad. You can't hurt me. I'm in CI5 headquarters."

"I know. The question is whether you'll ever leave it."

"How could Ray feel anything for an animal like you? You're sick," said Gareth, his contempt clear for all that his voice cracked. He braced himself, knowing there was no place he could hide.

"Of a number of things. Melodrama in particular. Go home," said Bodie, weary of it all. As the boy turned something made him add, "What's your name?"

"You mean you're interested? Sullivan. Gareth Sullivan," he added in sullen response to the intimidation of Bodie's stare.

"Sullivan?" echoed Bodie blankly, the change in his voice causing Gareth to give him a sharp look. "You're...you can't be one of Tony Sullivan's children."

"Really? Well for your information I'm the youngest. How bloody dare you imagine Ray would - He's known me since I was four!"

"Oh christ." Bodie sank onto the edge of the table, uncertain if his legs would hold him.

"Is that all you can say? Or are you going to pretend you didn't know? You didn't, did you?" said Gareth on a note of discovery, abruptly feeling in command of the situation.

"I must go," muttered Bodie to himself, oblivious to the rage being directed at him, sickly aware of the measure of the mistake he had made.

"To do what?" demanded Gareth, blocking his path, braced for resistance, having appreciated the damage this smooth-faced man could inflict if he chose. But the air of menace was gone, the expression on Bodie's face now too reminiscent of Doyle's earlier for Gareth's comfort.

"To find Ray, of course," said Bodie numbly, fumbling in his jacket for his car keys.

"You won't be able to," said Gareth with satisfaction.

"Why? He's left Chelsea? For where?" asked Bodie rapidly, his stare more intimidating than he could know, every thought directed to putting right what he had done.

"I don't know. And if I did I wouldn't tell you," said Gareth with spirit. "You're not fit to - I've said all I came to. If you know what's good for you you'll leave Ray alone," he finished pompously.

"Or what?" asked Bodie in a silky tone.

"Or next time I'll make a better job of laying you out. I've never seen Ray... You hurt him," added Gareth, his tone having changed as he became aware he hadn't found quite the villain he had been expecting. Feeling out of his depth and needing time to come to terms with what he had been told of Ray Doyle, he wanted to be alone.

"Yes," agreed Bodie, not daring to think how much, knowing what Doyle thought of Sullivan's sons. "You can't stay here. I'll see you out, we don't encourage visitors to go wandering the corridors," he added dryly when Gareth would have protested.

Within two minutes Gareth found himself in the chill of the January air watching Bodie drive off at speed.

 

Not knowing where else to start Bodie drove to Chelsea, still mentally reeling from the discovery that Sullivan's children were in their middle and late teens. From the way Doyle always spoke of them and the fact they seemed to need babysitters he had assumed they were eight or nine at most. Gareth must be fifteen, if not older. Not wanting to think of what he had done, or the conclusion he had jumped to on so little evidence, Bodie concentrated on his driving.

The Chelsea house was empty, the bedroom looking as if a hurricane had hit it, clothes spilling from the wardrobe and drawers. Yet little seemed to be missing. Bodie couldn't be sure, numbly going through the motions but remembering only the force of his blow.

With no idea where Doyle would have gone he sank onto the bed, one of Doyle's shirts unconsciously clenched in one hand, his emotional turmoil and fatigue such that he found it difficult to think. He couldn't remember having felt this lost before, the more so because he knew the fault to be wholly his own.

He arrived at the offices of Housecalls just after two o'clock, parking illegally and storming past the attractive brunette in the outer office, having remembered Sullivan had been due back from his honeymoon the day before and might therefore have returned to work.

Looking up as his door was wrenched open Sullivan's face tightened. "You must be Bodie. Unless you have a warrant you can leave or I'll call the police and have you evicted for trespass. Gareth told me what happened. There will be no brawling here. It's all right, Maggie," he added in a different tone. "Mr Bodie was expected."

Oblivious to her arrival or departure Bodie remained where he was, his eyes flicking around the cluttered room. "Is Ray here?"

"No."

"I'll find him if he is."

"I don't know where he is."

"You expect me to believe that?" Despair gave Bodie's voice an additional edge.

"I never expected to be having this conversation in the first place." Sullivan paused, struggling to control his temper. "Ray rang me to explain he would be going away for a while."

"Does he do that often?"

"Only when he's hurt," said Sullivan with a simplicity that commanded belief. "He's done it twice since I've known him but I don't imagine anyone has ever hurt him quite as badly as you. You bastard."

"Want him yourself, did you?"

"I suppose you would think that," said Sullivan with a dispassionate contempt. He would have thrown Bodie out but for his memory of Doyle's expression when he spoke of his lover. For Ray to look like that Bodie had to be more than a berserker bully-boy.

Flushing, Bodie looked down. "I didn't mean that."

"No? I suppose I'm too old to be a likely candidate - after Gareth. How could anyone who claims to think anything of Ray imagine he's been indulging in paedophilia all these years? He's been a second father to my kids for more than eleven years. He's part of the family. Gareth thought - thinks - " Sullivan corrected himself, " - the world of him. If even he could notice that Ray was upset... Get out of here," he said, rising to his feet.

Even from the depths of misery Bodie recognised that while Tony Sullivan might be twenty years his senior it would be no easy matter to bring him down. He didn't even want to try. "I need to find Ray and I don't know where to look."

"Why?"

"I know you don't have any reason to believe me, and I'm sorry your son got caught up in this, but it's Ray I'm worried about."

"You've got a bloody funny way of showing it, boyo. I can't help you."

"If you don't know where he is - He trusts you," said Bodie, even now resentful of the fact.

Sullivan's eyes narrowed. "If you're trying to tell me he didn't trust you, you haven't learnt a damn thing about him." 

While it took some effort, Bodie met the accusation in those blazing eyes. "I didn't give him much cause. Please. I need to find him."

Defeated by something he didn't want to admit to, compassion the last emotion he had expected to feel, Sullivan reseated himself, toying with his pen. "Ray could be gone for a day, a week, a month - he might not come back. In the past he's just taken himself off to hide amongst strangers. Both times he went to Europe." Noticing more now his anger had cooled, he gestured to a reddening patch on Bodie's jaw. "Where did you get that?"

Only becoming aware of the sore place when he fingered it, Bodie shrugged. "Gareth."

"Gareth!" With a strangled yelp Sullivan was back on his feet.

"Relax, I haven't reached the stage where I beat up children," said Bodie tiredly. "I didn't touch him - or only to make sure he hadn't broken his hand."

Realising that could account for some of the resentment he had heard in his son's voice when he telephoned, Sullivan slowly subsided. "I didn't think you'd hung around the house long enough for Ray to retaliate."

"What?" The effort it took Bodie to concentrate was palpable. "No, I didn't. This was at CI5. Gareth came to find me."

Sullivan closed his eyes. "Oh my god."

"He's all right. I wouldn't have - Especially once I knew who he was."

"No," conceded Sullivan thoughtfully, "I didn't think you would - or only for a moment. Ray wouldn't fall for someone like that. He loves you. He didn't need to say it. You poor bloody fool. You had Ray for as long as you wanted him. You obviously didn't want him for long."

Unsteady with fatigue, Bodie rubbed a hand over his face, as if trying to remould his features. "Only all my life," he muttered. "I have to find him and try to put things right. Please."

"You look terrible," noted Sullivan, unable to ignore the truth any longer. "When did you last eat?"

"Some time yesterday, I think."

"Sleep?"

"Can't remember. It doesn't matter."

"You've been away from home for a while? Work?" Bodie nodded because it required less effort than resisting the stream of questions. "Perhaps if you'd had some sleep recently this whole mess could have been avoided," said Sullivan acidly.

"I suppose I should have done. I drove down overnight because I hoped I might get the chance to see Ray before he had to leave for work."

Nodding, Sullivan made his decision and steered Bodie to an armchair. "Sit down before you fall down. Maggie, love," he called through on the intercom, "can you get that sandwich bar down the road to send round some food, as soon as possible? And something sweet, lots of sugar. Hold all calls except Ray's. Thanks." Turning, he eyed Bodie with an almost clinical detachment. "I think I know where he might be, it's the only place I can think of. If I'm right, a couple of hours' delay won't hurt. The three of us - Ray, Gwyneth and myself - own a cottage in Dorset. Far from the madding crowd - well, a mile or so, anyway. We take it in turns to make use of it. He's never mentioned it to you?"

"He doesn't volunteer much. And I don't know the right questions."

"He can be a difficult sod at times." He forestalled Bodie's attempt to defend Doyle. "Fact, not criticism. We met when he was seventeen. I've watched him mature. Apart from Isobel, he's the best friend I have, despite the difference in our ages. I'd do a hell of a lot for Ray. But there's no denying he can be difficult. He's wary of letting anyone too close but he's been starved of affection. It's that damned pride of his. He pushes people away instinctively. The habit's too ingrained for him to change overnight. But I've watched him mellow these last few months he's been living with you. You made him trust you, yet - "

Sullivan broke off when Maggie knocked and entered the room with enough food to feed a small army and a pot of coffee. Sullivan stood over Bodie, who obediently began to munch a roast beef sandwich. "You must have hurt him - to the bone - over this. That's why he's gone into hiding, to lick his wounds in private. If you're going to try and hunt him out you could find him turning on you."

Looking marginally better after his intake of food and caffeine, Bodie sat back. "I'll risk it."

"I wasn't thinking of you."

Bodie winced but said nothing, his own defences non-existent now. Lightheaded with fatigue, his brain could move no farther than the fact he had hurt Doyle, not least by besmirching his relationship with Sullivan's children.

"Have some more coffee," said Sullivan gruffly. "I won't put any scotch in it, you've a long drive ahead of you and you look ready to keel over now."

"You said Ray has gone off before."

It was a moment before Sullivan replied, unwilling to betray Doyle's confidence, the more so because he wasn't certain if doing so would help. "The first time was after Glencairn's heavies played their sick games with him. The second time was after I had to tell him David - you - was dead. Each time he came back he seemed fine but... It took me a while to realise he was locked a little farther away behind protective walls. I've watched them start to crumble since last October. I don't think it occurred to him to be wary with you. He thought you were like that." His steepled hands moved, interlocking his fingers. "It won't just be the fact you could assume he'd taken a rent boy the moment your back was turned, but the fact you could think he'd have sex - or even think about my kids sexually." Sullivan's expression was unforgiving.

"I didn't know who Gareth was," murmured Bodie almost inaudibly, his eyes closed, head back against the support of the chair, knowing that Sullivan was wrong about the extent to which Doyle's emotional walls had crumbled. Ray had allowed him into his house and bed; Ray had even relaxed enough to welcome him inside his body, but his mind and thoughts were wholly his own, giving Bodie little more than insight into what went on in his head than when they had first met. They talked, but not about the things that were important, Ray saw to that. Or is it my fault too? Bodie wondered, for the first time considering that possibility.

The answer was inescapable now the question had been raised and he opened bruised-looking eyes to meet Sullivan's severe gaze. "I may not have known Ray for as long as you but I understand how he feels about your kids. That's one of the reasons I need to see him."

"I'll give you the address of the cottage and some directions," said Sullivan abruptly, convinced more by the misery in the younger man's eyes than by the little he had said. 

It began to rain when Bodie left London, the weather worsening the farther southwest he drove, strong crosswinds allied to pouring rain making driving unpleasant. One who enjoyed driving usually, the journey became a test of endurance, Bodie having to concentrate on every action because he was so tired. Despite, or perhaps because of, Sullivan's directions, it took him an hour of criss-crossing country lanes before he found the narrow track he had passed twice in the storm. He concentrated on avoiding the water-filled ditch at the side of the track rather than what he could say to the man he had come to meet, having had too much time to think on the drive.

Sliding to a halt beside Doyle's powerful motorbike, the darkness and the rain gave Bodie little chance to gain an impression of the cottage. He was about to cut the ignition when light spilled out as a door opened to reveal Doyle. Dressed in black biking leathers, his helmet in one hand, he had no luggage. They met ankle-deep in mud, oblivious to the rain. Bodie didn't give him a chance to react, tumbling into speech.

"...wrong from start to finish. I would have known I was this morning if I'd been thinking clearly. All I'd been thinking about was seeing you, being with you and I was jealous. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, not any of it."

Illuminated by the headlamps of Bodie's car, Doyle's expression hadn't changed; he seemed unconscious of the rain in his face, a curious blankness about him. "No, I don't suppose you did," he said, his voice almost lost in the fury of the wind lashing the trees beside them. "But what happens next time? And don't tell me there won't be a next time. You haven't met Matthew yet, or Tony. I'm surprised you haven't accused me of having it away with Mrs. Hodges." It sounded no more than a statement of fact.

"I love you," blurted out Bodie. 

Doyle glanced at the hand clutching his arm. "Is that what you call it? I can't live with that kind of love. Once a whore, always on the make, eh?"

"I do trust you. It's me," said Bodie, taking an urgent step forward and faltering when he saw Doyle brace himself. "It's me," he repeated, blinking away the rain that impaired his vision. "I can't believe I'm enough for you. And I don't mean the sex. That's the least of it. Come back with me. Let me try again. I know you love me but - I find it hard to believe anyone could, sometimes. D'you understand that? I know I've hurt you, and god knows if I could turn back the clock I would, but...I do love you."

"No," said Doyle. There was no intent to wound in his unemphatic rejection, there was no emotion at all. "I'm going back to London. Let me know where you would like your belongings sent to."

Numb, Bodie watched him move away, settling his helmet on his wet hair. "Ray - " He allowed his hand to fall as Doyle gave him a look of disinterest, remote as the moon.

"It wouldn't work. Not for me, not for you. Look after yourself." He lowered his visor, completing the severance of communication even before he turned away.

Listening to the throaty roar of the powerful engine Bodie remained where he was long after Doyle's tail-lights had disappeared from view, oblivious to the buffeting of the elements. For the first time in nearly twenty years he was close to tears. He knew that this time there would be no reprieve; there were no pieces left to pick up, he had smashed them all. He could have defeated anger and bitterness, could have tried to assuage the hurt he had inflicted; met with an emotional void he knew he had lost.

While he enjoyed an easy camaraderie with most of his workmates Bodie had enjoyed emotional closeness with only a very few people; remembering the symbolism of Sullivan's interlocked fingers, he briefly closed his eyes. It had been an illusion, the left hand never understanding what the right hand was offering.

Eventually the biting cold penetrated his stupor of misery. Walking back to the car, slipping a little as the soles of his shoes failed to gain much purchase in the mud, he stopped as he saw the right front wheel: the tyre was flat. Taking a deep breath he retrieved the jack and spare tyre from the boot and set about changing the wheel, made clumsy by the cold and incessant rain. Lights flaring over him distracted his attention long enough for him to cut his palm. Swearing, Bodie clamped numb fingers over the deep gash and rose to his feet. Knowing it couldn't be Doyle, he wasn't interested in identifying the newcomer.

"Christ, what a night!" shouted Sullivan into the wind, the collar of his sheepskin turned up against the rain. "I got worried when I couldn't get any answer from the cottage - then I realised I hadn't given you the keys. Isn't Ray here?"

"He was."

"But you're leaving?"

"He was on his way back to London when I arrived. Probably half-way there by now. I couldn't... It's over," said Bodie without expression.

"What have you done to your hand? That needs covering." Within three minutes Bodie found his hand bandaged and himself sitting in the luxurious warmth of Sullivan's car while Sullivan finished changing the wheel of his Escort. Finally sliding in next to him Sullivan tossed the keys in Bodie's lap.

"That cut could do with a couple of stitches."

"It'll be okay. I heal fast," said Bodie dully.

"It's just as well. You're in no state to drive. I'll run you back to London. We'd better use your car - I suppose you'll need it for work. Come on." Hustled from Sullivan's car to his own Bodie made no protest at being taken in hand, staring numbly through the windscreen, shivering a little.

"I think you're wrong about it being over," said Sullivan into the silence. "Ray will come round."

It was some time before Bodie replied. While he didn't relish Tony Sullivan being privy to every detail of his private life, circumstances had left him with little choice but to put up with it.

"Not this time. I can't guarantee it won't happen again, you see. This time... I was too bloody jealous to think straight. Of you, Juliet Richardson... and finally of Gareth."

"Me?" said Sullivan in astonishment. "But he thinks of me as - "

"His best friend," interrupted Bodie, resentment flattened from his voice.

"I was. I've got news for you, I've been supplanted. Where does Juliet Richardson come into it?"

Exhausted and emotionally battered, Bodie answered him. "Because of what I am Ray's being vetted. Bloke doing the job mentioned seeing him with her. Ray's never mentioned her to me but I know..."

"Very little. Housecalls is redecorating the Richardsons' house and organising a couple of functions for them. Whatever might have been between Ray and Juliet has been over for months. Ray was going to tell her as much at that lunch - he wasn't looking forward to doing it because he thinks a lot of Juliet. He was doing it for you. It wouldn't have occurred to him to announce as much to you because it wouldn't occur to him you'd mistrust him. As it happens, Juliet wanted to tell him the same thing, so lunch turned out better than he'd been expecting. Why don't you trust him?" Sullivan added, his attention on the road ahead of them.

"I do."

"Yeah?"

"I don't know what makes me." Bodie took an unsteady breath, knowing too well. "He could have anyone. Anyone," he repeated wonderingly.

"You're the one he chose. Or the one he couldn't do without."

"He wasn't even angry," continued Bodie, oblivious to Sullivan. "I'm not sure he even heard me."

While the news did nothing to lessen Sullivan's anxiety, he was an expert in the art of the social lie. "Defence mechanism," he said promptly. "Give him a few days. Where will you stay tonight?" Bodie gave him a blank look. "You can't go to Chelsea," Sullivan reminded him gently.

"No. I don't know. It doesn't matter. There's always a cot at HQ."

Accepting that for the moment, Sullivan offered an undemanding recital of the trip he and Isobel had taken to Australia during their honeymoon, expecting and gaining no response. He fell silent when he realised Bodie had fallen into an exhausted doze. Completing the journey with the same skilful precision, he sensed Bodie stirring awake when he finally pulled up outside an elegant four-storied house. "You'll stay with us tonight. No arguments. You're already out on your feet and if you have to work tomorrow... How could I explain it to Ray if you got yourself hurt?"

"I'll be fine. Thanks for the lift."

"This is your car," Sullivan reminded him quietly as Bodie was about to open the door. "Come and get some sleep. You're a danger to everyone, including yourself, at the moment."

Bodie gave him a bewildered frown. "You can't want me as a guest after - "

"I'm warming to the idea. Besides, we'll be seeing a lot of each other over the years, we may as well get used to each other. Matthew's out with friends and Gareth is staying at my sister's. All you have to do is get out of those wet clothes and into bed. Don't worry," said Sullivan, rummaging for his front door key, "things will seem better in the morning."

While Bodie doubted it he was too tired to argue the point.

 

The wonderful all-encompassing numbness survived Doyle's ride back to London and entry into his house. The first cracks in it came when he stood staring down the hall, that bore no signs of the early-morning violence. It broke completely when he finally nerved himself to go upstairs, staring at the bed he and Bodie had shared: for a moment he was almost blind with rage.

Fuck him. If that's what Bodie expects from me I'd best get into practice. Within thirty minutes Doyle had showered and changed, taking trouble with his clothes and hair because he was going out hunting and the late hour set him at a disadvantage. Whilst he had never wanted to waste his evenings there, he knew which nightspots to go to, even which partner to select to ensure maximum media exposure.

At one a.m. he escorted Lucy Moxton home and spent the rest of the night with her; exerting himself to please, he was rewarded by a fleeting relief himself. But he did not sleep nor, staring out into the darkness, could he remember much about the evening save for the fact he had drunk more than was his habit.

 

Arriving at Housecalls earlier than usual, Sullivan found Doyle already at work. Save for a swollen lip and a sunken look to his eyes, the younger man appeared much as usual. Drawing up a chair, Sullivan waited for Doyle to finish his telephone call.

"You're back," he said unoriginally, not certain how best to approach this severe-looking man.

"Noticed that, did you. We're too busy for the luxury of me going off in a huff. I'm sorry Gareth got caught up in what happened yesterday. Is he all right?"

"Better than you or Bodie." While the reference drew Doyle's eyebrows together he did not pick up on the point. "Gareth would like to see you for lunch, Bodie just wants to see you. Any time and place you care to mention."

It was a moment before Doyle replied. "I'll give Gareth a ring. You've nominated yourself as go-between, have you?"

"Someone has to," said Sullivan, ignoring the warning signals. "Bodie was so tired yesterday that all he could think of was - "

" - I know what he thought," said Doyle, getting to his feet. "Enough, Tony. I don't want to discuss it. Is there anything else? I've got a meeting to go to."

"Only that Bodie will collect his belongings this morning - if you still want him to," said Sullivan, angry with Doyle and the world in general.

"I do. I'll see you later," said Doyle, leaving before Sullivan could say anything else.

 

While he gave every appearance of being in complete control, beneath the calm facade Doyle was still savagely angry, his rage all the worse because it had no outlet, or none he would admit to. Wanting to rid his life of unwanted reminders of Bodie and finding himself surrounded by them in the house, despite the fact it had been stripped of Bodie's possessions, he decided to sell it, finding a buyer within thirty minutes of having mentioned the fact at the Marlborough Club.

Working a minimum of twelve hours a day, Doyle spent each night with a different partner, visiting a different high-publicity-profile night-spot each evening, flaunting his new lifestyle in the face of anyone who might be interested.

 

After a week of watching from the sidelines as Ray Doyle set about burning the candle at both ends, Sullivan made a few arrangements of his own and ensured he was in the office very early on Monday morning. He was unlocking the front doors when a familiar track suited figure caught his eye; Doyle had run to work. From his sweat-soaked appearance he looked to have run halfway around London. To Sullivan's critical eye he seemed to have lost weight, his face betraying signs of a reduction in the time he spent sleeping and an increase in the amount he was drinking.

"You're a bloody fool," Sullivan said pleasantly as Doyle came to a halt beside him. "If you want to burn yourself out before you're thirty you're going the right way about it. When you've showered come and have a chat with me."

"I have a meeting at eight," said Doyle, his smile of greeting vanishing under the older man's disapproving glare. Not having expected attack from this quarter he was afraid his defences wouldn't be up to it.

"Cancel it. This is important."

"Is it business?"

"What else? You've made it clear you don't welcome any interest in your affairs."

Sullivan's cutting tone penetrating the contentment engendered by his run, Doyle paused for a moment before taking the stairs three at a time up to the small flat at the top of the building. When he finally entered Sullivan's office half an hour later he was shaved and changed, his hair still a little damp.

"You wanted to see me?" Despite his casual air, a wary apprehension was apparent in Doyle's manner, a fact the older man decided to capitalise on.

"If you're sure you can spare the time."

"I cancelled my meeting with Beaufort," replied Doyle evenly. "I'm free all morning."

"Good. I see from Fiona's letter you're planning to resign from Housecalls," continued Sullivan in the sane bland tone. "I would have hoped you might have told me yourself. I was obviously too optimistic. When are you leaving?"

"I didn't realise she would be... She wrote to you?" asked Doyle with an unusual hesitancy. 

"Are you suggesting she did so without authority from you?"

"No. That is... I thought it might be a good idea but..." His voice trailing away with untypical vacuity Doyle, who was still standing, glanced aimlessly around the room. "When do you want me to go?"

He looked so confused and miserable that it required a considerable effort for Sullivan to harden his heart.

"You mean I have a choice? It's not like you to be so thoughtful of the feelings of others. If nightclubbing and fucking around is the lifestyle you've been hankering after why wait until now to enjoy it? You've managed to hit every gossip column going in just under a week - and all with socially acceptable partners. You only need to be seen with a couple of the professional bachelors and your image will be complete. Stop behaving like a half-arsed adolescent. How many people are you going to mow down because you've had a lover's tiff? Bodie behaved like a jealous idiot but you're - "

"Don't, Tony." His back to the room, ostensibly staring out of the window, Doyle's hand was cramped over a window catch. "I take your point but...please don't." There was an audible crack in the silence that followed as the window catch came away in Doyle's grasp. He stared at it in surprise before setting it down very gently and tucking his hands into his pockets, wary of what other damage they might do.

Staring at what he could see of the younger man's profile Sullivan gave a faint sigh and called through on the intercom, "Maggie, no calls from anyone until further notice." Seating himself at his desk he waited for a few moments more before saying quietly, "Bodie has been trying to contact you."

"I know."

"You could always arrange to meet for a drink. You won't be committing yourself to anything." Doyle wheeled round, his stark expression saying what he could not. "Oh, Ray. He made a mistake. He was tired and homesick and - "

"It's over," said Doyle tiredly. "I knew it was a mistake from the beginning but I allowed myself to... We are what we are. He can't change any more than I can. Better to make a clean break now than to end up destroying each other."

"Would it help to talk?"

"Help? Nothing helps. Not even being angry. I'll just have to work through it. It's not the end of the world after all. You've met him then?" It was noticeable that Doyle did not refer to Bodie by name.

"Several times. I like him."

"So do I," said Doyle almost inaudibly. "I want some coffee," he added a moment later, getting to his feet. "You?"

"Why not? I know you want to make a clean break from everything that reminds you of... I don't want you to split this partnership too. If you need time off, take it. All the time you need. But I have a proposal I'd like to put to you."

Bringing the coffee over Doyle settled into one of the armchairs, his booted feet propped on the seat of the other. "Okay, stun me," he invited, unfastening his tie as if it was choking him.

"I met Paul Eliot recently. He's thinking of selling his detective agency and is looking for the right buyer. I thought of you.

"Me?" said Doyle, his eyes widening, but Sullivan was satisfied by the flare of interest he saw, in marked contrast to Doyle's efficient apathy of late.

"And me. But you'd be running it. You know Eliot's reputation as well as I do and it's not a bad field of operations. With the salaries he offers Paul can take his pick on staffing - mainly ex-police and ex-servicemen."

"I remember his fees," agreed Doyle. "That surveillance of Glencairn bled me white. Why does Eliot want out?"

"He's fifty-six and starting to think of the future. His children aren't interested in the business, they all have their own careers. Having spent nearly thirty years creating the agency he wants to make sure it falls into the right hands. He's in no rush to get out, rather the opposite - he's looking for a consultancy deal for himself for at least the next three years. That's a real bonus for any buyer with the wit to see it."

"What price is he asking - and over how long?" When Sullivan told him, Doyle's eyes narrowed. "There won't be much negotiating room. He knows his own worth. It couldn't hurt to have a preliminary chat."

Undeceived by his casual air Sullivan gave a satisfied grin. "That's what I thought. I've arranged a meeting with Eliot for this afternoon so we can get the ball rolling."

Tension easing from his face, Doyle smiled. "You're getting over-confident, or I'm too predictable. The idea appeals. Quite a lot, if you must have your pound of flesh."

"I thought it might. Housecalls could do with a little diversification in the right field. I believe Eliots could be it. And you're ripe for a change. I recognised the signs a few weeks ago."

Doyle made no attempt to deny the truth of that. "If I'd wanted a job in the City I would have taken up one of the offers I've had over the years. I'm spending too much time on my bum surrounded by paper. I'd want to be more than a figurehead at Eliots."

"No?" marvelled Sullivan, lighting a cigar. "How long have I known you? Paul knows the worst. It hasn't put him off. It's his style of running the business. He still manages his own files. The day to day business is handled by an excellent office manager and clerical backup. You're one of the reasons Paul is so enthusiastic about us taking over. He's had plenty of people sniffing around but not many individuals and no one he knows and trusts on a personal level. You and he have had plenty of dealings over the years. You'd have to go in at the bottom at least for a few months," Sullivan warned.

"That's no problem," said Doyle, his mind obviously elsewhere. "What do I know about private investigative work?"

"Sam Spade."

"Oh god. I can see it now. That's why you're interested, isn't it. The hat wouldn't suit you, Tony. What about Housecalls? There's too much work for one and Maggie is as involved as she wants to be. How will you manage until Matthew leaves university? He may change his mind about wanting to come into the business."

"Not Matthew. You know him once his mind's made up. He's decided against university and plans to start work full time as soon as he leaves school this summer," said Sullivan wryly.

Doyle eyed him thoughtfully. "Knowing Matthew he'll have thought this through from every possible angle. Besides, there's not much you can do with an English degree, is there?"

"That's not the point. Those three or four years - One of these days I'll remember how much you love to wind me up," sighed Sullivan, having been late to spot the amused glint in his companion's eyes. "Anyway, help is at hand - not of the same quality, I admit but it's probably better for him to be thrown in at the deep end."

"I agree - if we can keep you off his back. I'll tell Fiona to transfer my shares back to Housecalls - or straight to Matthew, whichever you prefer."

"The hell you will," said Sullivan, sitting up so fast he spilled ash down himself.

"Stop detonating and tell me what you want me to do with it then?"

"Don't tempt me. What d'you think, you silly bugger. We're partners, that's how it will stay. Unless you've really had enough of us," Sullivan added on an uncharacteristic note of doubt.

"I would have thought the boot was on the other foot. Especially recently."

"Then you'd be wrong," said Sullivan with asperity. "I'll miss having you around the place enough as it is. Is it because you're strapped for cash?"

Smiling in exasperation, Doyle sighed. "I wouldn't mind but I only took you through the figures last week. I've got more money than I know what to do with."

"You didn't get stung in the latest slump?"

"Give me a break. And nor did you. Don't you listen to anything I say?"

"I leave finance to you," admitted Sullivan sheepishly. "I swear you're the only thing that has kept the Sullivan family solvent, not to mention affluent all these years. I thought we could make Eliot another joint venture, unless you'd rather go it alone?"

"No," said Doyle simply.

"Well that's an underwhelming vote of confidence," said Sullivan gruffly. "You must be the only person I know claiming to have too much money. Though you'd never guess it by the way you dress," he added, casting a disparaging look at the man sprawled bonelessly in the armchair, disregarding the fact that Doyle's suit would have cost more than many people earned in a month.

Aware that the older man's views on sartorial elegance were at odds with his own Doyle gave an amicable grin. "Save the complaints for Matthew and Gareth. Okay, I'll hang on to Housecalls, but I would have kept an eye on the books for you anyway."

"Go upstairs and grab a few hours sleep, you might make more sense that way." Sullivan waited until Doyle was at the door before adding casually, "Gareth rang last night because he hasn't been able to get hold of you. He wondered if you'd drive over to see him and Matthew for tea on Saturday." Aware Doyle had gone to some effort to avoid meeting either of his sons recently, Sullivan was only glad the suggestion had come from them.

"Did you put them up to it?"

"I've got more sense," replied Sullivan frankly. "Can I tell them you'll be there?"

Aware that Sullivan's offspring had inherited their lack of subtlety from their father, Doyle sighed, yet to be convinced the casual affection he had enjoyed with them hadn't been destroyed just over a week ago.

"This business has done them good," mused Sullivan, aware of Doyle's doubts. "Gareth in particular. He can be a self-centred little monster. I think it's just dawning on them that life isn't always rosy with clear-cut heroes and villains. He's worried about you."

Doyle grimaced. "Poor kid's probably imagining I got beaten up night and morning. I was going to tell them but... Yeah, of course I'll go. I'll give one of them a ring this evening to confirm it. What time's this meeting with Eliot?"

"Half-past two. You can buy me lunch first. France's at quarter to one suit you?"

"If you book the table," said Doyle, giving in gracefully. "I'm off for a swim, see if I can wake myself up." He paused in the doorway. "Thanks, Tony. I'm... What the hell. I'll see you at France's." Every emotion precariously near the surface, he escaped before he disconcerted both of them by crying on the older man's shoulder.

 

"Ah, Bodie, I wanted a word with you," said Cowley, all but colliding with him. "My office. You've heard that Lucas and McCabe found Hassan?"

"Even from the snowy wastes of Merseyside," said Bodie, a little wary; a benign Cowley was a contradiction in terms.

"No doubt. Any calls for me, Betty? Good," said Cowley, heading into his office. "I'm taking you off the haulage operation, Bodie. I want you to head the team concentrating on Lusardi. I'm holding a briefing meeting tomorrow, six-thirty a.m. It's Doyle I want to talk about now. You know we've been vetting him, of course."

His expression wooden, Bodie's heart sank, certain Cowley must know he and Doyle had been living apart for the last eleven days and was about to demand the details. "Yes, sir?"

"The results are satisfactory, to a point. There's no trace of a Ray Doyle before the age of fifteen, when he appeared in London. If he changed his name I want to know what it was. I don't like mysteries." Bodie remained silent, hoping Cowley wouldn't ask him outright. "You can let me know by the end of the week."

"No, sir. It isn't important enough," Bodie added, aware it was a weak argument but manoeuvred into the position where one was needed.

"I'll be the judge of that," snapped Cowley, gesturing irritably for Bodie to sit as he poured them both a drink.

Bodie studied his glass. "Ray hasn't told me much about his early years and I haven't asked. The past isn't important to either of us."

"You can't work for CI5 and believe that."

"I can when I live with Ray Doyle."

"It's our job to mistrust secrecy."

"But not to confuse it with privacy." Bodie took a fortifying mouthful of scotch and decided to get to the point. "You say Ray's clear from the age of fifteen. How many fifteen-year-olds selling blow-jobs pose a threat to national security? He's no criminal mastermind either. I'm sorry, I can't help you, sir."

"It wasn't a request."

"Then you'll have my resignation as soon as I have a chance to write it," said Bodie evenly.

"Doyle is _that_ important to you?" said Cowley blankly.

Uncomfortable at discussing emotions he preferred to reserve for an audience of one, and trying not to remember he might never be given another chance, Bodie met the older man's gaze squarely. "Yes, sir."

"I wish I could share your faith."

"Ray's clean, whatever his name might be. I'd stake my life on it."

"You may be doing just that. Good god, man, you know the risks as well as I do. In some quarters of the world a fourteen-year-old... Och, what's the use. You know damn well I won't accept your resignation," added Cowley sourly. "And that's too fine a drop of scotch to waste."

"What about the surveillance on Doyle, sir?"

"What's the point? We've reached a blank and Fleet Street seems to be doing an adequate job of keeping us up-to-date if the gossip columns are to be believed."

"There's a good reason for that," said Bodie awkwardly, knowing that much to be true; Doyle was very obviously flaunting his freedom. But he hated nightclubs and had little time for the majority of the debs his work for Housecalls brought him into contact with. Bodie had the photograph which had accompanied one of the articles in his wallet. It wasn't a particularly good picture of Doyle but it was unmistakeably him. Few people would care to challenge the camera lens with such a direct stare. After his more obvious attributes that direct gaze was one of the first things Bodie had noticed about him. It was a potent asset, for when it wasn't intended as an indication of Doyle's interest in a companion, it made an intimidating weapon. 

"Really? I'm glad to hear it. Very well. That's all," said Cowley in dismissal, his scepticism plain.

Bodie released the breath he hadn't realised he was holding only when he was out in the corridor. Finding the squad room to be empty, he took the small, grainy news cutting from his wallet. "You silly sod," he murmured to the arrogantly staring man in the picture, knowing he would go to Chelsea the moment he was off-duty. If necessary, he would camp on Doyle's doorstep.

The priority call came in before Bodie had reached the car park. 

 

Having abandoned his attempts to prove to Bodie and the rest of the world that he was revelling in his new, unwanted freedom, Doyle found the evenings and nights endless, and very lonely. Unable to sleep, he made himself a mug of tea one night and began wandering aimlessly through the unlit house, going from one room to another, listening to the silence. About to return to bed, he paused halfway up the stairs, remembering Bodie's plans for how the staircase should be used. Sinking onto the third step, his forehead against the stained oak of the banisters, his eyes closed as he accepted that whatever the price of trying again might be, he would pay it. Until now he had managed to ignore the desolation of his life without Bodie, injured pride and an overriding fear of being hurt again and left with nothing forbidding the idea of compromise, or of effecting the reconciliation Bodie very obviously sought. He missed the man with a longing he could almost taste, and in every way. In this moment of honesty, he knew he wasn't the only one hurting, this stupid, needless separation of his own making. Neither of them could offer the other any guarantees, life wasn't like that. But we can try, he thought with burgeoning optimism. We both like taking a risk, why not take one together?

His decision made, Doyle got to his feet, knowing it was the biggest gamble of his life. But if it worked it would be worth any price.

He rang CI5 just before dawn, unsurprised by Control's guarded offer to pass on a message, the man's voice new to him. Tempted in that moment of euphoric certainty to give the gossips something to work on, Doyle simply left a message asking Bodie to ring him as soon as he was free.

The day that followed seemed interminable, and singularly lacking the one telephone call he was hoping for. Abandoning the pretence of working, Doyle returned to Chelsea and, stripping off his suit with relief, went to shower and change. Mug of tea in hand, he switched on the television because it was preferable to listening to the silence while he waited for the telephone to ring, afraid it might not.

Oblivious to the Australian soap opera that was playing, the strident theme of the six o'clock news caught his attention. The main news item held him in a vise-like grip as, along with the rest of the nation, Doyle learnt of the hospital held under a twenty-four hour siege that had been lifted only minutes before in a combined operation involving the police and CI5.

His tilting mug dribbling tea over his jeans, Doyle's thoughts were wonderfully focussed when the video camera, operated by an obvious amateur, homed in on a tall chimney stack being climbed by two men. It was difficult to make out any details about the men, quite apart from the shaking of the camera, which kept offering dizzying sweeps of sky and roof tops, although the white of the climbers' sweaters showed up clearly. That was the only recognisable feature, apart from the fact their hair was dark. Willing to swear he could identify both men despite the lack of detail or focus, Doyle sat forward, his concentration so intense he was deaf to the accompanying commentary. He flinched when one of the distant figures fell, to swing helpless and limp as a rag doll. Then the camera panned sky and roof tops again before offering distant views of the activity on ground level, before switching to professional pictures of the aftermath.

His interest in the death of the gun men, the foxhole on the roof they had constructed for themselves, the well-being of the patients or the opinion of the consultant surgeon minimal, Doyle continued to scan everyone on camera when the broadcast went back outside the hospital. But the helicopter was gone and the chimney stack devoid of life. Gaining a glimpse of Cowley, Doyle thought he also saw McCabe and his partner, proof positive, had he required any, that he hadn't imagined seeing the two dark-haired men. There was no mention of police or CI5 fatalities, or any reference to the climber who had been shot. Knowing from Bodie that public relations often transcended the truth in such reports, Doyle found no reassurance in the omission.

Continuing to see that limp figure hanging ninety or so feet above Southwark in his mind's eye, Doyle remained frozen in his seat until the emergency telephone numbers flashed onto the screen.

Every number he tried was engaged, as were those for the hospital itself and CI5. Continuing to ring each number in turn, Doyle mentally assessed and rejected contacts who might be able to give him the information he needed. None was available.

As if on automatic pilot, Doyle collected his car keys. Driving to CI5 headquarters, he discovered the building had been taken over by an insurance company and was in the course of renovation. Beginning to wonder if he had imagined CI5's existence, Doyle searched for a telephone box; of the three he found, one had been vandalised and the other two were for the use of phone card holders only. Lacking a phone card, Doyle muttered imprecations under his breath as he drove off in the direction of Southwark. Meeting a solid wall of traffic before he got as far as the Thames, he abandoned his car on a double yellow line and began to jog.

Unsurprised to find the immediate area around the hospital cordoned off, presumably to keep the sightseers at bay, Doyle gained access by flashing his membership card for the Marlborough Club at everyone he met, allied with a brisk, "Ray Doyle, CI5. Everything okay here?" His manner was such that within a short space of time he was in the dingy warehouse yard that backed onto the hospital, nodding to a couple of familiar faces as if he had an equal right to be there. He was about to enter the hospital by what looked like the door to the mortuary when he found himself nose to nose with an unamused McCabe.

"What the fuck are you doing here? Bugger off before Cowley sees you or he'll hand you your balls on a plate."

"Is Bodie - ?"

"Go," said McCabe, pushing Doyle out of the doorway as, half-turning, he caught sight of a familiar sandy head of hair at the end of the corridor.

The door slammed in his face, Doyle stood in the cold, oblivious to the activity and noise behind him, resisting the urge to hit something. To be this close...

Taking a deep breath, resolved to find a different entrance, on this occasion Doyle's luck failed him and he found himself unceremoniously evicted by the police, having been given a stern warning. Knowing he had lost any chance of gaining access to the hospital and trying to convince himself that McCabe would have told him if Bodie was dead, Doyle returned to Chelsea to wait. It was all he could do.

His imagination having been working overtime for several hours, it was a while before Doyle realised the sound he was hearing was the front door bell. 

"You took your time. What the fuck d'you think you're playing at?" demanded Bodie, looking tired, irritable and beautifully whole.

His eyes and mouth wide open, Doyle dragged his off-balance caller into the hall, pushed him back against the already closing front door and kissed him with the pent-up hunger of twelve days of longing and six and a half hours of imagining the worst.

Still framing Bodie's face between unsteady hands, having broken off the kiss only when it became essential to breathe, there was a distinct break in Doyle's voice. "I saw the news. You and Murph on that chimney. Couldn't see which of you got shot, or how badly." His hands travelled lightly over Bodie, who smelt of sweat, brick dust and the cold. "You're all right," he discovered, unsteady with relief.

Remaining slumped against the wall, a little dazed by his reception, Bodie fleetingly touched his mouth, which felt bruised.

"I think so. That was quite a welcome."

"I was worried," said Doyle with masterly understatement, making no effort to move away.

"I gathered that much when McCabe said he had to kick you out. Later you can tell me how you got into a secured area," added Bodie grimly. "If Cowley had seen you... Did you want to make me a laughing stock? God knows what McCabe thought." Still running high on adrenalin, his glare faded when Doyle looked down. "I've missed you. I was going to come round when the emergency call came through. I take it you missed me."

"Of course I bloody - Yes. A message has been with Control since early this morning. But you don't want to hear that now," added Doyle, noticing the blue smudges around eyes which were heavy with fatigue for all their brilliance.

"Do you hear me objecting?" said Bodie mildly, twenty-four hours of tension ebbing away as he soaked up Doyle's healing warmth and the unmistakable sense of homecoming.

"I forgot McCabe would tell... Have I ballsed things up for you?"

Bodie absently kneaded Doyle's shoulder. "No. He seems to regard you as an honorary squad member. He's a bit uptight because Lucas went and fell down a ladder and apart from breaking a leg, one arm's a bit of a mess. Yeah, I know," he added wryly, responding to Doyle's change of expression. "Cowley wasn't too thrilled about it either. Silly bugger."

"Is Murph okay?" asked Doyle belatedly. One hand remained at Bodie's waist, absorbing the solid, unharmed reality of him. 

"Better than Lucas, by all accounts. Though he's feeling a bit sorry for himself right now. Still, at least the hospital was handy," Bodie added, with what the uninitiated would have taken for callousness.

Doyle gave a vague nod. "I went to headquarters for news of you. It's moved. No forwarding address."

"About a week ago. It happens all the time. For security," said Bodie, wondering if Doyle was paying as little attention to their conversation as he was; but it seemed to be making sense, particularly on a non-vocal level.

"You look knackered."

"Looks aren't always deceiving," allowed Bodie.

"Are you off-duty now?"

"Till Sunday afternoon."

"You're hungry, of course."

"Famished. I could do with a bath, too. I stink," said Bodie with a grimace.

"There's plenty of hot water. I'll organise some food while you soak, all right?"

"Very." Only now looking around, everything as he remembered it, Bodie's smile was one of immense satisfaction before he glanced questioningly at Doyle, experiencing a moment of uncertainty.

"Go and have a bath," urged Doyle in understanding. "I'll be up in a minute."

Grateful for some easy, mundane task to bring him back to earth, he quickly retrieved food from the freezer, set the microwave and made coffee, lacing it generously with scotch.

The bathroom was full of steam, the only visible portion of Bodie his head and left arm, which was stretched along the rim of the bath. "D'you want me to get out?" asked Bodie drowsily.

"The food will keep. Don't rush."

"Don't think I could. Christ, it was cold up on that stack, wind went right through us," said Bodie, water lapping to his chin.

"This coffee should help. It's half and half so take it steady," warned Doyle, sitting on the edge of the bath.

"Wonderful," sighed Bodie, taking a blissful sip, his slitted eyes on his companion. "You look tired."

"It's just gone one in the morning. I'm fine." It didn't occur to Doyle to add 'now' - he didn't need to. "Is everyone apart from Murph and Lucas all right?"

"On our side. Dunno what they said on the news but it was...hairy...for a while. Tell you tomorrow. Wash my back for me?" Bodie added, creating a small tidal wave as he leant forwards.

Damp from knee to hip where he was perched, Doyle rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt to soap the powerful muscles of Bodie's back, his movements languid as he gained an unthought-of pleasure from the undemanding contact. Removing the empty mug from Bodie's hand, he kissed the top of his head. "All done. And the water's cooling down. Do you want to top it up?"

"Better not. I'm starting to look like a prune," said Bodie, emerging from the somewhat grubby water.

Handing him a bath sheet Doyle studied him for a moment. "No, more like a peach. Will you be warm enough in a robe or do you want a tracksuit?"

"Robe's fine," said Bodie, almost dozing as Doyle began to dry him. His cut-off exclamation made Doyle pause.

Undoing the towel Doyle discovered a long, raw-looking graze and several cuts down Bodie's side. "There was more than one bullet flying around up there then."

"Bloody hail of them at one point. Luckily they were piss-poor shots. Reckon they only hit Murph by accident. Not that he was very impressed when I told him so."

"Can't think why. Stay still, I'll get some Savlon for those cuts."

"Don't bother. They're nothing. Honest." His hands on Doyle's shoulders, Bodie kissed him with slow luxury before resting his forehead against Doyle's. "Nice. God, I've missed you. You said something about food?"

"Ready and waiting. Would you rather eat in bed?"

Shrugging into one of the bathrobes hanging on the door, Bodie pulled a face. "I'm not that far gone. Here, you'd better put one of these on, too. You're almost as wet as I was." Acting as Doyle's valet, he dropped Doyle-warm clothing into the laundry basket, stroked his damp flank dry and held another robe out for him to put on.

The meal was excellent, although neither man could have said what he ate; conversation minimal, the silences were comfortable. Ignoring the dirty crockery, Doyle steered his heavy-eyed companion to bed.

Sleeping in a close, hot, comforting tangle, it was nearly mid-day before Bodie stirred when he felt the mattress dip. Wondering where he was, he peered over the top of the duvet.

"It's all right, you're home."

"Thank god for that," mumbled Bodie, cuddling close.

"I'll second that," said Doyle, stroking down the length of Bodie's spine before he paused. "There's something you should know."

Alerted by a wary note in his voice, Bodie propped himself up on one elbow. "About you nightclubbing?"

Doyle grimaced. "I don't know why I'm so surprised, you were supposed to know. Six nights, six different girls."

"I've got the picture from the Mail in my wallet," said Bodie quietly. "If it hadn't been for Murph trying to hide the papers, I wouldn't have seen it. Did you enjoy them?"

"It was better than a trip to the dentist. I don't remember much about it. They didn't mean a thing - except a way of scoring points. Was a lousy thing to do."

"A night with you's no hardship, sunshine. God, it's ironic," sighed Bodie, his mouth in Doyle's hair. "When I have cause, I'm not jealous and when there's actually... I am sorry, especially that it should have been Gareth. But the pair of you looked so easy together and he's a good-looking kid. It didn't occur to me Tony's children were that old or I would have known it was only horseplay. Not that it's much of an excuse. I'd like to promise I'll never be so stupid again, but - "

"No promises, no post-mortems," said Doyle quietly, relaxing against him. "We'll work it out this time round. They say the first twenty years are the hardest."

Bodie kissed the corner of Doyle's eye because it was the nearest portion of Doyle that wasn't covered in hair, before making small adjustments to their position until he was supporting Doyle against himself, brushing his lover's flat belly with his knuckles. "You did okay the last time around. I'm too quick to think the worst."

Having relived their conversation in the storm many times, insecurity not an emotion he had ever associated with Bodie until then, Doyle knew he wouldn't forget it. "And I hold grudges. I've got a horrible temper, too," he said, stretching like a cat under Bodie's caresses. "But I couldn't run out on this because you're a part of my life and wherever I went that wouldn't change. Tony gave me a real bollocking, a deserved bollocking. I've been alone too long to have had much practice at thinking of other people's needs. I've got a lot to learn. Learn with me. I didn't know you climbed," he added, one thought leading to another as he turned in Bodie's loose embrace.

"Nor did I until Murph hauled me half-way up that chimney," said Bodie with a crooked grin. "I'd done a bit of rock climbing when I was in the Paras but nothing... Never, ever again. I was fucking terrified because he sent me up first. He's a good bloke. Shift yourself, sunshine. I need to take a leak. Have you got the day off?"

"I have now. I won't tell you what Tony said when I rang him. Unless you have other plans, I thought I'd make breakfast before we came back to bed," called Doyle, lowering his voice as Bodie reappeared in the doorway.

"Spend all day in bed?'

"Unless you don't fancy the idea."

"Oh I fancy it. It's just that I'm not convinced I'll be able to live up to it," said Bodie frankly.

"Nothing to live up to. Just you and me. Reminds me, I must ring Mrs Hodges. No point her coming over this afternoon," added Doyle, pulling on an old tracksuit before going downstairs.

"I haven't seen you look like this since Christmas," said Bodie, padding behind him, still tying the belt to the white towelling robe.

"Like what?"

"With that challenging glint in your eye which says if you want it, you'll have to work for it. I've never been able to resist a challenge."

"That's what I'm relying on," said Doyle with a grin. "I bet you couldn't make a full English breakfast."

"You'd be right. Leave it to the experts, that's my motto."

"You'd leave it all to me?"

"No," said Bodie, suddenly serious as he took Doyle's face between his hands. "Fifty-fifty, same as always."

 

"What time is it?" asked Doyle with little real interest, upon seeing that Bodie was awake.

"Sixish, I think."

"Time flies when you're having fun."

"Would you mind if we called in to visit Murph this evening?"

"Course not. We'd better think about getting dressed," said Doyle, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

"You think about it."

"You can't be that tired, we haven't done anything all day."

"I'm wounded. Twice I gave you my all. Should've shaved first," Bodie added, touching a reddened spot on Doyle's hipbone.

"Shave before we go out. You'll be nice and smooth for tonight."

"Mmn." Remaining propped against the pillows Bodie watched with approval as Doyle left the bed, giving a long, slow stretch, his body intriguingly shadowed in the mellow light of the lamp, before he poured them both a drink. "Know what I meant to ask you," Bodie continued lazily, "Why is the study full of packing cases?"

Consternation overtaking contentment Doyle sank onto the side of the bed. "Bugger. I forgot," he said blankly.

Helping himself to his glass Bodie watched his companion rub his nose in what he had long since recognised as an indication Doyle wished to gain himself time. You might have the decency to ask a question," complained Doyle with a rueful grin.

"Nah, I like to see you suffer. Come on, out with it. What have you done?"

"Sold the house. We have to be out by the twenty-fourth of February."

"You what?" Choking on a mouthful of whisky, it was a moment before Bodie could show much interest in the proceedings. "We've only been apart for twelve days," he protested. "Most people take months."

"Most people get caught up in house-buying chains and mortgage hassles. I mentioned the fact I was thinking of selling to someone at the Marlborough and hey presto. He's got a Swede flying in expecting to take possession on the twenty-fourth."

"But why sell? Are you short of cash? I can give - "

"Put a sock in it, I'm fine. I couldn't stand seeing you in every room, that's all. So I decided to make a complete break."

"Stupid prat," said Bodie kindly. "I'm like cockroaches, difficult to get rid of."

"You've got a lovely way with words. Still, at least this time you'll be able to have a say in where we're living."

"So long as it's in London and with you I don't care."

"Some people will say anything to get out of doing the work," said Doyle gruffly, but he gave Bodie's knee a friendly shove.

"Always wanted to spend my days off house hunting. I should be able to get a mortgage. And don't argue. I'm too old to be a rent boy." Prepared to continue his argument, Bodie was sidetracked by Doyle's smile. "If we have to move out, where will we live until we find a house?"

"Hotel," said Doyle blithely.

"Together?" asked Bodie with obvious scepticism.

"Bugger."

"No, that's one of the many pleasures we won't be able to enjoy," said Bodie sadly.

"It'll have to be your flat then. But I'm sleeping on the sofa. I've no intention of providing blue audiotapes for any of your lot. Besides, we should be able to complete in twelve days. This end of the housing market there are quite a few places up for immediate possession. If you can afford the insurance cover, which we can, the legals needn't take long and you don't have to wait nine months for the local searches to come through."

"You hope," said Bodie, who hadn't got a clue what Doyle was talking about but was enjoying the sound of his voice too much to care. "There's one small problem. I gave my flat up before Christmas, remember?"

"Then you didn't have anywhere to go that night." Contrite, Doyle knelt beside him. "I didn't think about where you could go. Where have you been staying? You don't have to tell me," he added quickly.

Bodie's mock punch drifted past Doyle's nose. "After you left the cottage I discovered I had a flat tyre. Managed to cut my hand. It's fine - " he added, slapping the palm in question over Doyle's mouth. "So I was still there when Tony turned up. He drove me back to town and put me up for the night. It's difficult to stop him once he decides to take charge."

"Notice that, did you."

Able to read his companion like a book at present, Bodie decided to lighten the mood. "Then he found me a landlady. I've been staying with Gwyneth since then, work permitting."

"You've been staying with - I'll kill 'em. Neither of them said a word. Probably just as well," Doyle added after a moment. "I wasn't in the mood to listen. How did you get on with Gwyneth?"

"Stop grinning like that," said Bodie severely. "Anyway, it's not fair. She's made me feel... She's been great. I don't know why you moan about her so much." Doyle's jaw sagged in exaggerated disbelief. "Honest. She didn't ask a single question, just told me she'd heard we'd split and why. Said I was a fool but you were as bad, if in a different way, and that if this nonsense went on for much longer she'd be round to sort you out."

"She would have, too," said Doyle with feeling.

"I know. That's why I asked her to lay off. She never said another word about it," said Bodie, his affection obvious.

"She was right and you were wrong. That's history, though."

"I hope so," said Bodie, his expression troubled. "I don't ever want to hurt you like - "

"Give over," said Doyle. "I know. I'm glad you've taken to Gwyneth, she's a lovely lady."

"And a fantastic cook. I couldn't stop her from feeding me. Couldn't stop eating the results either. I always eat when I'm depressed. I've put on seven pounds," said Bodie with disgust. "Trust you to be the type who loses weight." He ran a finger down Doyle's rib cage.

"I can give you lots of exercise," consoled Doyle. "We could always call in at Pimlico tomorrow to give you some more. The kids were asking after you."

"Strange as it may seem, I'd rather spend the day with you. It couldn't hurt to call in one evening though. They're not a bad bunch. Ashley could turn into a useful flyweight with the right coaching. And what's that grin for?"

"Grin? Me? Gerroff," yelped Doyle as Bodie began to tickle him, an unorthodox hold preventing Doyle's escape. "Sod," he gasped finally, giving a token heave of protest as Bodie knelt astride him. "For someone who didn't enjoy their visit you certainly remember a fair bit about it," he teased before his expression changed. "Christ, I love you. Come here."

To their mutual surprise, considering their endeavours of the afternoon, lazy frottage slipped them into a sweet, effortless climax.

"Who'd have thought it," murmured Doyle with sleepy satisfaction. Bodie chuckled weakly. "Prat," said Doyle amiably, "that's not the surprise, just the fact we had anything left."

"It wasn't exactly earthshattering, was it," said Bodie reasonably.

"Doesn't need to be - every time," said Doyle with a certainty which only increased Bodie's contentment, providing as it did further evidence that Doyle no longer felt he must prove anything - in bed or out of it - with him. It took a moment more for Bodie to appreciate that the reverse was also true.

His arms tightening, he hugged Doyle fiercely before relaxing his grip. "You're right." Taking one of Doyle's lax hands, he carefully linked their fingers, smiling a little as he studied the result. "This is how I always wanted us," he explained, sensing Doyle's puzzlement. "It took me a while to realise I already had it. Felt cut out of your life, or at least what went on in your head. I'm not explaining this very well," he added lamely.

"You're doing okay," said Doyle gently, raising their joined hands to brush his lips over Bodie's knuckles. "Maybe we were in too much of a hurry. Maybe we took too much for granted. It'll sort itself out if we work at it. I'm just not used to the idea that the person I want to spend my life with wants the same thing." Watching the infinitesimal relaxation around those impossibly blue eyes he allowed his own to droop to a close. In time the scars they had unwittingly inflicted on each other would heal.

Boneless and replete, Doyle looked to be on the edge of sleep. Bodie gave him a gentle prod. "Apart from hitting the gossip columns and selling the house, what else have you been doing? You look tired."

"Not a lot," murmured Doyle, opening his eyes with distinct reluctance. But he punched up his pillow and, stretching out, retrieved the bottle of scotch, pouring them both a drink. "Had too much of this, too much sex and spent the next week working out in the gym and clearing up work. I'm packing in the consultancy side of things. It's taken over and I never intended to spend my life sitting behind a desk. Tony and I are buying a detective agency," he added as an afterthought.

"Just like that?" said Bodie, suspecting he was being set up. 

"It doesn't take long."

Bodie propped himself up on one elbow when he realised Doyle was serious. "What do you want a detective agency for?"

"To detect, of course."

"Join the police," said Bodie promptly. Even the thought made him grin. "On second thoughts, don't. You'd have to get a haircut for one thing. For another, your sergeant wouldn't take kindly to being put right by a PC every five minutes. A detective agency..."

"You can take that snotty look off your face," said Doyle tolerantly. "We can't all go round saving civilisation as we know it."

"I wasn't being superior. Well, only a bit. I can't imagine you having the patience - or inclination - to waste your time on debt collecting or searching for some old age pensioner's lost cat, that's all."

"You're right, I wouldn't have."

"Don't just lie there grinning like an idiot. What will you be doing?"

"Lishen, sweetheart," lisped Doyle in an appalling imitation of Bogart. Bodie groaned and closed his eyes. "I said, listen." Doyle's poke in his ribs attracting his attention, Bodie pinned a look of devoted interest in place. "A bit of everything. The main workload is security-related, mainly industrial, but Eliot has a lot of Housecalls' clients in common."

"The rich and disgusting," said Bodie knowledgeably, giving a grunt as Doyle landed on his midriff.

"That's right."

"Hang on, did you say Eliot? You've bought out Paul Eliot? Bloody hell! Even Cowley rates them. They're one of the best in the business."

"They'll get better," said Doyle with a cocky grin. "I've got a few improvements in mind."

"I bet you have." Bodie gave him a wary look. "You're going to be taking an active part in running Eliot?"

"There wouldn't be much point in buying it otherwise. I know I've got a lot to learn but..."

"Oh, you could do it. But I know you. You'll give this job one hundred and one per cent, the same way you do everything else. And sure as eggs are eggs some jobs will get under your skin. Joanne Corrigan did, remember? Given the amount of industrial espionage work Eliot are involved in it could get pretty hairy. Might be dangerous."

"I don't believe I'm hearing this. Not from you," said Doyle, staring down at him.

"That's different," said Bodie lamely, faltering under Doyle's unwavering look. "You worry about me?"

It was so obviously a new thought to him that Doyle had to smile. "Only you could ask that. Sometimes. It would help if I knew what you were doing. It's worse imagining things. I mean, if you're enacting Custer's Last Stand I won't be happy about it but at least I'd know."

"You never said anything," muttered Bodie blankly, unaccustomed to the thought of someone worrying about him. The fact he was far from indifferent to Doyle's well-being was beside the point.

"What's the point?" said Doyle mildly. "You are what you are. Don't look so bothered. I knew what I was getting, more or less."

"Can you live with it - the job, I mean? I won't be with CI5 all my life, another ten years maximum, but until then..."

"I can live with it. Just make sure you do," said Doyle, the intensity of his gaze pinning Bodie where he sat.

"I promise," he said, knowing he had no way of being able to keep that vow but making it anyway.

"Good enough," said Doyle lightly, kissing him on the nose before tickling him.

"Gerroff!" In the short scuffle which ensued, most of the bedding and Bodie's drink landed on the floor. "Now look what you've made me do. What's going to happen to Housecalls?"

"We'll manage. I'm already spending a few hours at Eliot to get a feel for what's going on - and picking Paul's brains like crazy. In another week or so I'll have wound up all my consultancy work so I can get some training in. Then I'll take on my own caseload. Ideally I'll be able to manage a few days a month at Housecalls. In the long term I should end up with more free time."

"I wonder if Eliot know what's going to hit them," mused Bodie, half-wishing he could be there to see it.

"Me? I'm a pussy cat."

"Then I'm Snow White. Bloody hell! Have you seen the time? We'll have to get a move on if we want to see Murph tonight. You'll come with me?"

"Course. Any man who's so stupid he doesn't push you in front of the flying bullets deserves all the grapes he can get," said Doyle, uncurling from his boneless huddle to beat Bodie to the bathroom.

 

House-hunting was a new experience for Bodie. Because he had nothing to compare it with it took him a while to appreciate that the task might not always be this easy. By three o'clock Saturday afternoon they had found a house off Cheyne Walk, only three-quarters of a mile from where they were living now, needing to do no more than exchange a glance to confirm this was the one for them. It was shortly after that that Bodie began to realise how much he had been taking for granted.

"I'll give Fiona a ring as soon as we get in and ask her to get moving with the legals. Tony will organise a survey for Monday morning," said Doyle, propping his knee up against the dashboard, his sunglassed face inscrutable in the unreasonably warm sunshine which had sent Londoners scrambling for lighter clothing. "With a bit of luck we should be able to complete before the twenty-fourth. You're looking a bit pensive. Changed your mind about the house?"

"Course not. Though I still think we should have given the Jacuzzi a test drive. I'm just realising I've been a bit slow on the uptake. Good god, there's a parking space right outside the house."

"Then park in it, quick," commanded Doyle. "I'll ring Fiona. Fancy a lager and sandwich?"

"Leave it to me."

Entering the kitchen a few minutes later to find Bodie foraging in the refrigerator Doyle began to cut and butter bread. "Two slices enough?"

"Make it four. It's hungry work traipsing around houses. We must have climbed hundreds of stairs."

"Not to mention the flight you fell down at that place in Kensington. That'll teach you to gawp at ceilings."

"Okay, so you tell me why anyone would want a mirror on the ceiling of the landing," retorted Bodie, helping himself to as much chicken as ended up in the sandwiches.

"You might have been able to embarrass the stuffed shirt of an estate agent but you should know better than to try it on with me," retorted Doyle. Food prepared, they ate sprawled in two armchairs inside the open french doors leading out into the tiny garden, basking in sunshine.

"What was bothering you earlier?" asked Doyle through a large mouthful of food.

Taking a lazy swig from his can of lager Bodie studied his companion, seeing him through new eyes: the tatty jeans were countered by the Rolex watch, the white boots were of soft, supple Italian leather and the wine-red silk shirt was of a quality unknown to High Street chain stores. Casual, understated luxury might be Ray's hallmark, he decided, enjoying the sun burnishing the unruly head of long curls and the line of Doyle's throat.

"Think you'll know me again?" asked Doyle tartly.

"No question about it. You look good. And don't look so suspicious. That was a compliment."

"I suppose you'll answer the question in your own good time," said Doyle with resignation.

"For a trained observer I haven't done too well with you. Too many distractions I suppose," mused Bodie, his eyes on Doyle's long legs. "It's just dawned on me why when word got out about us around CI5, I had to put up with so many jokes about kept men. I put it down to the fact I was living with a bloke. It was because I'm living with a rich bloke. You are, aren't you?"

"I'm no Rothschild but we're not on the breadline," Doyle conceded, more interested in trying to contain the filling in his sandwich.

"I didn't hear anyone talking prices when we were looking round today," said Bodie conversationally. "As if the price didn't matter."

"It doesn't, up to a point," said Doyle, his cheeks bulging like a demented hamster's. "Don't forget, I've sold this place."

"I know, but - "

"For just under nine hundred thousand," continued Doyle, licking tomato pips from his fingers.

Bodie choked on a mouthful of lager. "Say that again?"

"You heard me. The house market is crazy for places like this." Giving a comfortable wriggle Doyle turned his face to the sun with a hedonistic delight.

"You mean I've been having it away with a millionaire?" There was a delighted grin on Bodie's face and, endearingly, amazement.

"Even you must have realised I'm not hard-up," said Doyle with gentle mockery, amused that his cynical lover could be so unworldly in some respects, well aware Bodie had seen the Mini, knew he did his own decorating and assumed he was broke.

"I know but... You work long hours and you don't flash money around like some I've met." Bodie pulled a rueful face when he saw Doyle's spreading grin. "I've been thick, haven't I?"

"A bit. It didn't take me more than five minutes to realise you weren't a fortune hunter."

"I never thought of that," said Bodie with consternation.

Inhaling as laughter caught him unawares, Doyle choked on his last mouthful of food.

Thumping him on the back Bodie matter of factly scooped up what had escaped Doyle's molars. "It was your suave style that fooled me," he said gravely, handing Doyle a handkerchief.

"Sod," said Doyle, giving a lush sniff before using it. "You silly bugger. I own half of Housecalls, I'm considered a dab hand at playing the market and I live in a four-bedroomed house in Chelsea. Only you could sit worrying that I'm broke. Perhaps you'll stop pratting on about money now. We've got money - and it's clean - so enjoy what it can buy."

"I know it's clean," said Bodie irritably. "I'm not that stupid. But - "

"I want to use that decorator you got me for Christmas for something special," continued Doyle, oblivious to the interruption. "He can decorate our new bedroom, I can't live with purple. You'd better decide what you want. Walls the colour of tomato soup are out," he added firmly.

"How about mushy pea?" But Bodie's heart wasn't in the flippant comment and he still looked worried.

Sliding out of his chair Doyle crouched beside him. "Look, I've been working with and around money since I was sixteen. It's what I'm good at. But it isn't earning money at this level which matters so much as making a deal work, the negotiating, the wheeling and dealing. I'm not obsessed by or with it. Does my being comfortably off really bother you?"

"It hasn't really sunk in yet. You realise you've shot my image to hell. I am a kept man. You silly sod," added Bodie, giving him an affectionate cuff that did no more than ruffle his hair, "of course it doesn't. Besides, if your money runs out we can always live on mine."

"Only if Cowley gives you a pay rise," said Doyle the realist.

"You don't have to work for a living, do you?" said Bodie, wondering how it could have taken him so long to spot the obvious.

"Not now, or for the foreseeable future. Nor do you if you want to pack in CI5." Doyle gave a faint smile, having no difficulty in interpreting Bodie's expression. "That's what I thought. It's the reason I choose to work too."

"If you're so rich, will you buy me something?"

The request took Doyle by surprise, until he turned back from closing the french window against the rapidly cooling air and glimpsed Bodie's expression. "We're not having a mirror over the bed," he said decisively, realising his mistake when he saw the glint in Bodie's eyes.

"Now there's a thought. No, this is cheaper. A pair of jeans - for you. So you can put this pair out of their misery." Bodie gave a portion of denim a disdainful tweak.

"I like these jeans."

"Well I don't. Could get two of you inside them, they're so baggy."

"Don't exaggerate. These are so comfortable I don't even know I'm wearing them," said Doyle, getting to his feet.

Bodie viewed the sight with gloom. "I can believe that. Or a nice pair of leather trousers," he mused, his gaze centred where he knew Doyle's genitals must be nestling, a friendly grope establishing as much.

"Dream on, sunshine." Patting his hand, Doyle retrieved his can of lager. "Tell you what, we'll have a mirror over the bed instead. Tacky but fun. Just so long as you explain its presence to Gwyneth. It's no good deluding yourself she won't want a guided tour of the place."

"Piece of cake," said Bodie with confidence. "We'll blame it on the kinky last owner. Speaking of kinky, I don't half fancy you. Come to bed?"

"Certainly not, it's only ten past six. On the other hand, I fancy you too, and the bed is more comfortable. The sofa's not the best place to fuck. Okay, you've talked me into it. Before you get carried away," added Doyle hastily, "don't forget we've still got to pick up all your stuff from Gwyneth's."

"We should tell her we're back together too," mused Bodie. "I know she'll be pleased." His affection for her was so evident that Doyle had to pause to kiss him, draping himself comfortably over the seated man. 

"You're such an innocent. If I know Tony, the jungle drums will have been working overtime. The only wonder is that the whole family hasn't turned up on the doorstep before now."

"You had to say it," sighed Bodie, re-zipping Doyle's fly with regret as the front door bell rang.

"We could pretend to be out," murmured Doyle, his mouth still against Bodie's throat, his hands beneath Bodie's shirt.

Sorely tempted, Bodie gave him a gentle shove. "It could be Gwyneth. You'd better go and answer it."

"What d'you mean, me?"

"I'll toss you for who goes," Bodie offered, his cords uncomfortably constricting at present.

"I'll toss you out of that chair. Go," commanded Doyle.

"You wait," Bodie promised him, pausing to make a few structural arrangements within his cords before re-fastening his shirt.

Watching as Bodie trailed off to silence the continuously ringing front door bell, Doyle sank into the vacated chair. His head back, eyes closed, a delighted smile spread across his face as he heard Tony's, "No need to ask why you took so long to answer the door," and the unmistakable sounds of Bodie being hugged by a delighted and vocal Gwyneth.

"What an evening," sighed Bodie, collapsing into bed, not wholly by design. "Did you see how much gin Gwyneth knocked back? You wouldn't have thought she'd touched a drop. So much for women being the weaker sex." Receiving only an incoherent mumble of acknowledgement he gave what little could be seen of Doyle an admonitory poke. "You're lying on my side of the bed."

"You want it, you'll have to take it," said Doyle, flipping back the edge of the duvet to fan himself. "Phew, it's hot under here. Be a mate and open another window. All right," he sighed, as Bodie just looked at him. "At least I don't have to worry about introducing you to the clan," he added, pushing away the duvet. "Gareth didn't give you a hard time, did he?"

"Too busy pumping me for details about the army. How did he know I'd been in the army?" Bodie added with suspicion.

"I may have mentioned it," Doyle admitted.

"God only knows what you told Matthew," added Bodie darkly. "Thought he was going to call me sir at one point." The idea struck Doyle as exquisitely humorous and he began to giggle. "But he wasn't bad once he relaxed a bit. They'll get used to me."

"What about you?" asked Doyle, sobering.

"Love you, love the Sullivans. I can think of worse fates. I hate to admit it but they aren't a bad bunch."

Undeceived, Doyle gave a crooked grin. "What you mean is, you like 'em, you grudging bugger."

"Speaking of buggery..."

"Okay, take me, I'm yours," said Doyle, rolling onto his back and throwing out his legs and arms in a theatrical gesture. "You'll have to do all the work," he warned as Bodie showed every sign of taking up his offer. "I'm too pissed."

His nose nudging Doyle's testicles by this time Bodie paused to look up. "Bet me?"

 

Doyle's whistle brought Bodie to a halt at the kitchen door. "Hold up. Don't forget. Home to Lawrence Street tonight. Today's the day we move."

"Christ, I forgot all about it. I haven't done a thing to help," said Bodie, genuine contrition on his face before he glanced around. "Nor have you. Left the packing a bit late, haven't you?"

"Quick, very quick."

"I must be missing something. The thought of shifting furniture doesn't usually make you beam like that," said Bodie with suspicion.

"What's the point of having a dog and wagging your own tail? Housecalls is moving us. As it's for the boss this should be the most trouble-free move in history."

"That's asking for trouble," Bodie told him severely.

"Bet me?" invited Doyle with a confident grin.

"You're rich enough already."

"Chicken. Any chance of you being home tonight?"

"I should be finished about sixish as far as I know. Why?" asked Bodie warily.

"Stop panicking. I just thought I could pick you up and we could go into the new place together. You can carry me over the threshold."

"You wish. But the principle's sound. I gave you our new address, didn't I?"

Doyle nodded. "Mortimer Street, back entrance. I'll be there."

"We'll use my car," said Bodie. "No need to bring the Mini."

"You're such a snob," grinned Doyle. "I'll be waiting. I hate to say this but it's quarter past eight."

"Argh!" Grabbing his jacket Bodie was already running down the hall. At the front door he paused, giving it a gentle pat. "Just remembering happy times," he explained in answer to Doyle's questioning look, gone before Doyle's smile had formed. 

 

His jacket collar up around his ears, having been seduced by the warmth of the day into forgetting it was February and that any heat vanished with the sun, Doyle leant against the side of the Mini, munching one of the apples he had bought earlier. He felt very content, having arranged matters so that he had a few days' leave. More than that, having made a quick detour to Lawrence Street his house-warming plans were complete. All he needed was Bodie to make them perfect.

He paid no attention to passing pedestrians - any mugger crazy enough to consider robbing someone parked outside CI5's back door deserved all they got - and so jumped when a familiar voice said, "Good evening, Mr Doyle. I've been trying to contact you. Can you spare a minute?"

Glancing from Cowley to the Rover stationary next to his car, an attractive, vaguely familiar blonde at the wheel, Doyle shook his head. "Not if Bodie's off-duty."

"Regrettably - "

"Bugger," said Doyle without heat. "He's all right?" he added sharply.

"Disgruntled by the amount of paperwork he's had to read today but otherwise fine," said Cowley urbanely. "I thought we could talk in the warmth of my office."

Dropping his apple core through the grille of the drain, Doyle locked his car and set off beside the Scot, unwillingly intrigued. "What is it this time?" he asked.

 

"...as Doyle is fortuitously on holiday for a few days," finished Cowley in mellifluous tones, seemingly unaware of Bodie's thunderous expression.

"CI5 doesn't employ outside labour," said Bodie curtly.

"Unless it suits our purpose. Doyle has offered his expertise. You can't deny we need some. The Fraud Squad can't spare anyone for at least a week and Jowlett won't be back from holiday for another ten days. You know as well as I do that these accounts of Temple-Blake's need a more expert eye than mine cast over them. There are various other papers I should welcome Doyle's opinion on too. And I'm in a hurry."

"But Ray's - "

"Able to speak for himself," said Doyle tartly. "Give over. If it's Temple-Blake you're after I'm more than happy to oblige. I owe him." Seeing Bodie's eyes narrow he gave a fleeting shake of his head. "Not on my own account. A friend from the old days. He left her with uncomfortable bruises and some very nasty threats. There's just one thing, Mr Cowley."

Bodie relaxed back in his chair, this more the Ray Doyle he knew and loved.

Cowley eyed the younger man warily. "You know we can't afford to match whatever fee Housecalls might usually charge for - "

"God, no. You can have this on the house - if I can see the job through as far as it goes. On the street. I won't get in anyone's way and I'll do as I'm told - within reason." Bodie grinned at that characteristic qualification. "I'd like to see CI5 in action. I've just been given a gleaming security clearance," Doyle reminded the Scot.

Gratified to realise Doyle was coming to his senses at last Cowley gave a slow smile. "So you have," he mused, his gaze sliding to Bodie.

"Sir, if I could have a word with you."

"Later, 3.7. Take Doyle to the Ops room and find him a desk and screen. Tell Davis he's to have all the computer time and assistance he needs - full access."

"Sir," began Bodie again.

"Yes, yes. I trust you won't object to being temporarily re-teamed for the duration of this assignment." Cowley beat a hasty retreat before Bodie could voice any of his objections, certain that this marked the beginning of a long and profitable partnership for CI5. 

 

"Ray, it's nearly two a.m. Aren't you done yet?" asked Bodie plaintively.

Having been deep in conversation with Davis and Ruth where they were huddled around a VDU, Doyle spared his lover an absent glance.

"Oh, hello. Is it? We've got a bit more backtracking to do yet. I'll crash out here for the night. You couldn't find us some food and coffee, could you?" He had already turned back to the screen, leaving Ruth grinning broadly at hearing Bodie being used as a go-fer.

"But - " Staring at the back of Doyle's head Bodie swallowed his protest, recognising that Doyle's single-minded purpose was focussed elsewhere for the moment. Safer in the Ops Room than out on the street, he reminded himself, going to fill Doyle's order. He had been disconcerted by the ease with which other squad members had greeted Doyle, as if they considered him to be one of themselves already. Uncertain how he felt about that, or the possibility that fiction could become fact, Bodie went away to do some hard thinking.

 

By the time Cowley allocated two of the suborned jurors to Doyle to interrogate Bodie had abandoned his protests, knowing that if his temporary partner had been anyone but his lover he would have been more than content with Cowley's choice. Fear for Doyle's safety lurked constantly in the back of his mind, shadowing him. He knew he was guilty of over-reacting. Doyle had already proved he could look after himself during the fight in the pub, and he seemed to possess an instinct which told him which approach to use on a given witness. That he was enjoying himself wasn't in question; that he fitted in was undeniable; with other squad members, Cowley - and himself. And Cowley had foreseen this back in May. Cunning old bugger, conceded Bodie, going to snatch a few hours' sleep on one of the cots.

It was the evening of the following day before he met up with Doyle again. When they were sitting isolated in one corner of the near-deserted café and had brought each other up to date Bodie quietly offered Doyle the use of an unlicensed semi-automatic pistol he had stashed in the car.

"I never thought I'd hear myself say it, but I'd rather have that cheeseburger you're clutching to your bosom. I'm starving. Are those chips mine? Great. No, I don't want it. I appreciate the thought though."

"Why not? For chrissake, Ray, the way this job is going you might need it. They've killed once," hissed Bodie.

"Then we'd better make sure they don't get a second chance. If I take it I might be tempted to use it, and not necessarily at the right time. I'm not used to targets which bleed or fire back at me. Let it be. I'll be careful," said Doyle quietly.

"I don't know what the fuck Cowley's playing at. He never brings a civilian in this deep," groaned Bodie, having recognised the note of finality in Doyle's voice.

"Yes you do. He's on a recruitment drive."

Bodie set down his cooling hamburger, no longer hungry. "And you?"

Giving his coffee a look of distaste, not caring for its smell, Doyle took a wary sip. "I've learnt more than I expected. Relax," he added, wishing they weren't in a public place. "Your mob isn't for me. I could get to like the work too much."

Bodie didn't pretend to misunderstand him. "And you don't think that's happened to me?" Since he had been living with Doyle it was something he had begun to think about more and more.

Smiling, Doyle shook his head, pushing his own meal away. "You do what needs to be done - and you're bloody good at it - but you don't revel in it, and you don't abuse the power being in CI5 gives you. Why d'you think I fell for you all over again, you daft sod?" he added, open affection on his face, his voice so low it barely carried to his companion.

Their knees brushed under the table. "I'd trust you," said Bodie hardily, meaning just that, his expression giving no hint of what it cost him to deny his fear for Doyle and grant him the same freedom he had been given. While Bodie hadn't slept much the previous night, he had done a lot of thinking.

Careless of who might be watching them, Doyle's hand covered Bodie's. "That's the other reason I asked Cowley to let me out on the streets. I've watched you worry yourself sick for me over the last five days and you haven't said a word about it. I've seen the effort you've made, and I appreciate it. But enough's enough. I wasn't testing you or anything stupid like that but I wanted you to know what it feels like. With the best will in the world you can't imagine it, you have to experience it. And I'm sorry for putting you through this but I'd do it again if I had to. As I don't, I'll pull out now. I could distract you. And I want you safe, not dead on my account."

Smiling, Bodie shook his head. "For you I'll live forever. We'll see this op through together. Don't pretend you don't want to."

"Okay," said Doyle easily, "I won't. You understand, don't you." He hadn't expected that.

"Of course. In a few years, maybe not that many, I'll come knocking on the door of Eliot for a job. Cowley's going to be livid when he finds out he's lost you," Bodie added happily. 

"He'll be in an even worse state when he realises he wasn't the only one on a recruitment drive," said Doyle serenely.

"You've never tried to poach some of this mob for Eliot?"

"Try nothing. I've hooked one already. And no, I'm not going to tell you who. You'll hear soon enough," said Doyle wickedly.

"Is it Murph?"

Abruptly serious, Doyle shook his head. "No way. I want him here, guarding my assets."

"Give me some credit," said Bodie acidly. "I've been allowed out by myself for years now."

"Don't pull that macho crap on me," said Doyle, smiling again. "You know what I mean. Cowley's bound to want to team you two when he knows I'm not going to play. Will you do it?"

It wasn't a new thought and Bodie didn't have to pause. "Yes. Murph and I have already talked it over. We'll team. So who've you got?"

"If we were at home I might let you wring the truth out of me with a little tried and tested persuasion. As we're not, we'd better stop holding hands and get our noses back to the grindstone. Once we've netted the buggers I'll tell Cowley I'm going back to the real world." Doyle paused just outside the café. "You understand why I can't ..."

"I understand. And I'm glad, and not just on my account. Eliot got himself a bargain in you. So did I," added Bodie with a frankly lecherous leer to hide the tenderer emotions seeking an outlet, knowing Doyle, too, would understand.

"All mouth and trousers, you are," said Doyle gruffly, giving him a shove in the direction of the car in lieu of the caress he would have liked to offer.

 

It was another two days before they were free to go home, Cowley's expression dour when Doyle politely declined to join CI5 for the last time. Standing forgotten in the shadows, aware Doyle had made no reference to Eliot and that Cowley seemed to be unaware of Doyle's ownership of the agency, Bodie hoped he would be around when the Scot found out.

"You mean you're not afraid of the fall-out?" said Doyle as he drove them home, ignoring Bodie's complaints about the Mini on principle.

"It's nothing to do with me," said Bodie virtuously. "Hey, you've missed the turning."

"We've moved, remember?"

"Oh. Right. Bloody hell, I wonder what state the removal people will have left everything in," said Bodie, only too familiar with the chaos CI5's removal men could and did cause. 

"Immaculate," said Doyle, tucking the Mini in the parking space behind an olive green Jaguar XJS.

"Nice," said Bodie, who had yet to develop any affection for the Mini.

"What? The Jag?" said Doyle, going over to it. "It's okay. I'd prefer an Aston Martin myself. Not very practical, though."

"Not remotely," agreed Bodie, knowing Doyle well enough to guess which model he must have in mind. "Fun, though. No, I'd settle for this. They hold the road like a dream. Nice acceleration too."

"You fancy a run in this one?" said Doyle, his body shielding the lock from view as he fiddled with it, his gaze remaining on Bodie.

"Ray, what the fuck are you - ?"

"One of the first things I learnt when I first came to London was how to open a car. Any car," said Doyle, opening the driver's door and sliding inside. "BMWs are a bit of a pain, mind."

"Ray, for chrissake!" expostulated Bodie, stopping only when car keys were dangled in front of his nose.

"Like taking sweets from a baby," said Doyle happily.

"You mean it's yours?"

"Ours. I'm quite happy with the Mini for London. Fancy a quick burst do you?" said Doyle, getting out and gesturing to the wheel with a flourish. "Though if you get nicked for speeding you're on your own."

Bodie's gaze had already left the car, lingering on the narrow hips and long legs of the man next to him. "It can wait," he said, his brilliant gaze travelling slowly over Doyle.

"I'm flattered."

"So you should be," said Bodie, relocking the Jaguar and steering Doyle to their new front door before frisking him for the keys. "Though I suppose we should take a look around inside first. It'll probably take all evening to find anything."

"I'm hoping you'll have other things on your mind."

"Like what?"

"This and that," said Doyle vaguely, allowing Bodie to cross the threshold first, relieved to see everything as he had left it well over a week ago. Closing the door by the simple expedient of leaning back against it he began to strip, unnoticed by the man in front of him.

Glancing around the hall, the house already seeming comfortable despite its lack of familiarity, it was a moment before Bodie's gaze reached the staircase. The banisters sported a ribbon across them, a folded towel, a pillow and a container of Vaseline Intensive Care lotion sitting on the bottom stair.

"The champagne's in the fridge," murmured Doyle in his ear, his arms sliding round to hug Bodie to him. "But you don't get any until after the opening ceremony. If you're not too tired of course." Skilfully unfastening Bodie's fly, his delving hand offered an approving pat. "No problems there, I see."

Turning to smile, hands already skimming the naked, much-loved body, Bodie's eyes were alight with laughter. "You're crazy," he said with conviction as Doyle continued to strip him.

"I'm in good company. As I remember it was your ambition to have it away on the stairs. I'm here to please." Bodie's shirt slung over his shoulder, Doyle lightly fluffed the soft, dark hair at Bodie's armpit and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Where d'you want me?"

"Everywhere," said Bodie with truth.

"Sounds like we're going to be busy then. Though if it's all the same to you I'd rather give the banisters a miss. It's a hell of a drop if we get carried away."

An arm around Doyle's shoulders, Bodie studied the steep, narrow staircase, then the man at his side, his eyes warm with a mixture of love and lust. "You deserve better than that. I'll settle for the bed, if you're on it with me. Shall I get the champagne or will you?"

His shoulders pressed against the banisters, the warmth of Bodie plastered against him, Doyle locked his arms around him, his mouth hungrily seeking Bodie's.

 

"As housewarming's go this has been..." Bodie waved a vague hand before it settled limply on Doyle's belly again.

"True. I'm starving. D'you want to ring for some food? Phone's on your side of the bed."

"In a minute," said Bodie lazily, nuzzling at Doyle's right nipple, his body and senses still singing. "Can't believe you handled all the move so easily. Mirror as well," he added, knowing why Doyle's eyes were on the ceiling. 

"Thank Sir Edward Walker for buying our old place over a handshake," said Doyle, watching his hand cover Bodie's right buttock in the mirror. A small snort in the hollow of his throat redirected his attention. "What have I said now?" he asked, realising Bodie was laughing.

"You did say Sir Edward Walker?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Propping himself up against the pillows, Bodie was still grinning. "Nothing. It's just a coincidence I hadn't expected. Remember that bloke I told you about, the one I spent a happy fortnight of luxury with when I was on leave and in the mood for a bloke?"

Doyle gave a small choke of his own. "You mean - you and Sir Edward?"

"That's right. I haven't seen him since. Didn't realise he was a member of the Marlborough Club. Haven't seen him there."

"He's been in the States and Australia for a few months. You'll probably meet him there sooner or later. Will it be a problem?" asked Doyle, sobering. 

"Not for me," said Bodie. "I've got nothing but nice memories of him but it was strictly a holiday fling for us both. He taught me a lot, mind. What's so funny?" he added, untroubled but suspicious.

"Nothing really. Just that Sir Edward is something else you and I have in common. Who d'you think started me off playing the market? Because I didn't realise he was rolling I gave him cut-price sessions in exchange," remembered Doyle.

"You mean we both..? I love it. Wonder what he'll say when he meets us," mused Bodie without a flicker of jealousy.

"Something ribald, unless he's changed. He didn't by any chance give you lessons in prostate massage, did he?" added Doyle.

Bodie looked at him. "You, too?"

Doyle nodded.

"Well, well, well," said Bodie, gathering him close. "I reckon we should take the old bugger out to lunch one day." Staring down into the green depths of Doyle's eyes, he paused. "Or we can cut him dead. He's not important, just a shared memory."

Satisfied that Bodie was as relaxed as he sounded, Doyle shook his head. "No, we'll buy him lunch. He'll enjoy the joke as much as we have, although he's bound to gloat about the one and only time he fleeced me in a deal. Then we'll carry on making our own memories."

PART FOUR  
APRIL 1989

 

It was April before the detonation Bodie had been waiting for came. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Damn right I want to see you! Why wasn't I informed that Doyle had bought out Paul Eliot before now? You know what he was doing while he was working here of course."

"Helping us to nail Temple-Blake?"

"Don't be flippant with me, 3.7. Damn his eyes, he was poaching my staff from under my nose for Eliot," said Cowley, who was bristling with outrage.

"Who?" asked Bodie curiously, his loving dexterity over the weeks having failed to wring the information from his replete and very happy lover.

"Betty! He had the infernal impudence to steal my secretary!"

Bodie fought and failed to keep his mouth straight. The devious little sod, he thought lovingly. "She'll be a sad loss, sir."

Undeceived, Cowley glared at him. "You're damn right she will. As will Ruth, Lucas and McCabe! Are you trying to tell me you didn't know about them either?"

"Not about Ruth," said Bodie with truth. "But with Lucas's arm keeping him off the A squad I suggested Ray have a word with him."

Calming, Cowley gave a heavy nod. "Aye, I'm glad the lad's found something to suit him. He couldn't do better than Eliot. But McCabe and Ruth!"

"Not my doing, sir. But McCabe and Lucas have been five years teamed. If Lucas decided against accepting a lower grading it was odds on that McCabe would go with him. Ray's done well to get Ruth though," added Bodie admiringly.

"Well!" exploded Cowley. "If I'm any judge of Ray Doyle he won't be happy until he's stripped CI5 of every - Och, pour us both a drink. I'll not pretend I'm happy about it but I'm not wholly surprised. Eliot can offer excellent work and superb rates of pay. Am I to expect your resignation in the near future?" he added, his expression fierce.

Bodie handed him a generously filled tumbler. "Not just yet. At twenty-seven I reckon I'm good for another five years or so. Maybe ten. After that..." He shrugged. "I'd like to live to a ripe old age. We both know my chances of managing that are better at Eliot."

"Doyle accepts that you'll stay on here?"

Recognising that the abrupt question was prompted by more than concern at losing a useful member of the team, Bodie nodded. "He's backed me all the way. He would have followed me into CI5 if he'd seen the need. His stint here convinced him I could be trusted out alone - if Murph was in the background," he added flippantly, before he sobered. "Ray's made the right decision. Working for CI5 would destroy him, one way or the other. And you know it," he added shrewdly.

"Living with Doyle has sharpened your wits," said Cowley with approval. "But you could be right. My interest must always be with CI5, not the individuals who make it what it is." Knowing Cowley too well to accept that, Bodie smothered his grin, knowing equally that it held an element of truth. "Paul Eliot must be delighted. But you can tell Doyle from me that if he approaches any more of my staff he'll have me to answer to."

Grinning openly now, Bodie nodded. "Why not tell himself yourself, sir? You know where we live. Ray has a couple of ideas he'd like to discuss with you."

"Such as when he takes over the running of CI5?" said Cowley sourly, before he gave a wry smile. "I may just take you up on that offer."

"...which means the devious old bugger probably wants my unpaid services again," said Doyle later that night, after Bodie had gleefully given him the highlights of his meeting with Cowley.

"I wouldn't mind experiencing them myself," said Bodie wistfully, wondering if their celebratory meal and over-indulgence of wine had left them up to it. "A Ray Doyle special."

Doyle gave Bodie's lax genitals a gentle pat. "I'm too pissed to manage a long, slow fuck - or a fast one. But with a bit of mutual cooperation we might be able to come up with something..."

 

"Was lovely," said Doyle with drowsy affection, crooking one leg over Bodie.

"You're plastered," said Bodie indulgently, "but it wasn't bad considering the state we're in. Better if you hadn't kept giggling of course."

"Your fault for tickling my balls."

"Anything you say. Go to sleep, sunshine. Some of us have got to be up bright and early."

"Boasting again? There's something I've been meaning to tell you," added Doyle, snuggling close, his breath a warm stirring against Bodie's throat.

"I suppose it was inevitable you'd choose two o'clock in the morning to think of it," sighed Bodie, propping his eyes open. But it was impossible to resent the affectionate drunk curled over and around him.

"Shurrup, I'm talkin'. Went wrong the first time round 'cos I didn't do that enough. Be different this time."

Glancing at his watch, Bodie mentally agreed with him. "I know," he said, his eyelids drooping.

"No you don't. I haven't told you yet," reproved Doyle, befuddled green eyes staring down into muzzy blue ones. "I'm not Ray Doyle."

"Could've fooled me."

"No, I mean my name, it's not Ray Doyle."

Bodie's hands didn't pause in their idle stroking. "I know," he said unexcitedly, giving a grunt as Doyle's elbow dug into his stomach as Doyle righted himself.

"I said I'm not really Ray Doyle."

"And I told you I knew that. Cowley discovered as much back in January when you were being vetted. He wanted me to find out your real name. I told him to forget it. It doesn't matter."

Doyle stared at him, owlish in the light of the lamp. "You don't mind?"

"What?" asked Bodie, losing the conversational thread, seduced by the mouth hovering over his own.

"I wish you'd concentrate. The fact I'm not me."

"You're you. It doesn't matter what name you were born into. You're Ray Doyle as far as I'm concerned. And you're all I need. What made you change it? In case you were found?"

"Nah, there's no way anyone would've been searching that hard. Couldn't stand it, that's why. You sure you don't mind?"

"Positive," Bodie promised him, his fingers lacing through silky hair.

His gaze surprisingly lucid, Doyle kissed him. "That's all right then," he said. Satisfied, he snuggled back under the duvet. "I just thought you should know," he added, wriggling into a position of maximum comfort.

When he gave no further signs of life Bodie tapped him on the shoulder. "Oy, you don't get away with that. Who is the man I've been doing all these intimate things with then?"

"I'm - " Propping himself up on one elbow, Doyle paused. "Nah, I know you, you'll only laugh, and I've heard all the jokes I want to."

"Why should I laugh?"

"You don't usually need a reason," said Doyle darkly.

"You could be right. Okay, so don't tell me, sunshine." Switching off the light Bodie resettled Doyle against him and began counting silently.

He had only got as far as five when Doyle said, "Well, don't you want to know?"

"I can't sleep for worrying about it. Give over, Ray. I don't know what you're making all the fuss about. It can't be worse than William."

"Want to bet? Promise you won't laugh."

"Of course I won't." Staring out into the darkness, Bodie began to speculate wildly.

"You will," said Doyle with gloomy conviction, just as Bodie's speculations were giving way to sleep. "Everyone always did."

"Okay, I will. Are you going to tell me or do I have to force it out of you?"

"God, don't tickle me! I need to take a leak as it is," gasped Doyle. "Adrian, satisfied?"

Bodie had heard worse, but staring at the barely discernible features of his lover his shoulders began to shake as he was struck by the incongruity of it. He had nothing against the name as such but it didn't suit Ray. Not at all. He made a valiant effort to control himself.

"Adrian?" he echoed with hardly a quiver. "There's nothing wrong with Adrian."

"There is when it's followed by Fluck," said Doyle sullenly.

Bodie was laughing too hard to save himself when Doyle kicked him out of bed and launched himself on top of him. Nature taking its inevitable course in the battle which followed, it was some time before either man recovered enough to remember the original point of contention.

"Adrian," said Bodie fondly. "Adrian..."

"Don't even think it. William."

Smiling up into the eyes boring into him, Bodie cupped the wilful face between his hands. "You've got yourself a deal, Ray."

"Thought I might," said Doyle cockily.

Bodie debated thumping him for being so smug but decided to hug him instead.

 

Completed 1990


End file.
